Chapter 15 #4
I struggle for a long moment, then throw myself across the room. He’s not Ten. He’s my Sir. And I want to please him, although less in this moment than I have since we met. Fuck him for screwing with my business.
I kneel, shuddering. “Fuck you, Sir,” I hiss under my breath. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.”
“Get it out, girl,” Mac says before reaching forward and stroking my bent head. “Get it all out. You hate me, right?”
At the moment, I almost do. I don’t say it, because when I do, it’s a joke. This isn’t a joke. This is so unfunny it isn’t true.
“Anything else?” he asks.
“No,” I growl.
“Uh-huh. Look at me, bold girl.”
I lift my eyes and meet his. The icy flare of anger has faded to warmth.
I swallow and feel the rising panic wash out of me.
Under those intense blue eyes, I settle, like a pond as the ripples of a stone’s throw fade.
My shoulders drop as the tension washes out of my muscles.
The pounding in my ears fades. Mac slips his hand under my chin and holds my eyes.
“That’s better, isn’t it?”
I nod reluctantly.
“Tell me what’s happened.”
“A client came in wanting a portrait. Nicky went to pull the design out of my sketch book but the book’s gone. He can’t find it anywhere.” I bite my lip as a surge of panic swells up from my belly again. “And you’re going to tell me it’s my own fault for the shop security not being tight enough.”
“No, I’m not. I’d never throw something like that in your face when you’re in the middle of a crisis, girl, and I’m disappointed you’d think I would.”
My chin quivers against his palm. Fuck it, I’m not going to cry over this.
“Sorry, Sir.”
“First we’re going to get you back in control. Second, we’re going to deal with this design so Nicky can do the tattoo. Then we’re going to address your punishment. Any questions?”
My whole body’s quivering. This feels so unfair. I shouldn’t have to deal with this when shit is falling apart at my business.
“Brenna, any questions?”
I grab hold of my lady balls and try to pull it together. My hold’s shaky. Like every damn muscle in my body.
“No, Sir,” I grit.
“Good. Up over my knees.”
Now’s the time to tell him to fuck off. To use my safe word like I did with Ten and walk away from all assholes who think they can control every aspect of my life.
But I can’t bring myself to open my mouth.
Mac’s my Sir. The Dom I’ve wanted. And I respect him, I really do, when he’s not being an asshole about my business.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Logan herd everyone else out of the room. The hallway door closes behind them. At least I’m not going to have to do this in front of an audience.
Grudgingly, I haul myself up and over Mac’s knees.
“Wrists,” he says.
With as much grace as lobbing a bag of trash, I throw my hands into the small of my back.
Chuckling, Mac closes his hand over my wrists. “I’m not accepting yellow for this, but I will honor red. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” I hiss. “Are you trying to push me into saying it?”
“No, Bren. Let me help you.”
“This is not helping me!” I snap.
“Uh-huh. Toes on the floor, pointing in. There’s no count. We’re done when I say we’re done.”
I want to scream at him. Rage. Let out all my fear and frustration in words that bite and tear and push him away.
Instead, I grip the rug with my toes, pushing my heels wide.
His hand circles over my ass, once, twice. I expect a warm-up, the way he has when we’ve done impact scenes.
Instead, the block of wood he calls a hand slams into the crease of my ass hard enough that tears spring to my eyes.
“Ow, fuck!”
“Up on your toes. No kicking.”
I wasn’t even aware of kicking. I grab the carpet again with my toes.
His impossibly hard hand slams into the crease of my ass again. Does he soak his damn hands in salt water to toughen them?
“Fuck!”
“That’s it. Let it out.”
I don’t for several more stinging, eye-watering smacks, just to spite him. I’m a masochist. I can take whippings, for fuck’s sake. I’ve taken his damn whipping. I’m still wearing his marks a few inches above where he’s hitting me. I can handle a little spanking.
Only Mac really knows how to make it hurt. More than it should. He smacks the crease and my upper thighs, over and over, side to side, without a pause, with that ridiculously hard hand. I swear the ridge of his palm is made of steel, not skin and bone. My thighs must be purple by now.
“Enough, Sir!”
“Told you, bold girl, we’re done when I say we’re done. Is that beginning to smart?”
Beginning? The backs of my thighs are on fire. Not in a good way. This isn’t fun. This isn’t sexy. It hurts. A-fucking-lot.
He angles his hand for the next series of smacks, back on the crease of each cheek. It feels like he’s ripped off the top layer of my skin and is slamming straight into muscle and bone, the sting shoots so deep. The angry tears standing cold in my eyes heat and spill. I sniffle.
“C’mon, sweetheart. Let it out,” he coaxes.
“Fuck you, fuck you, Sir!”
“’Least I got a Sir this time.” Mac releases my wrists, only to gather my dreads in his hand and squeeze. He controls my head, holding me with my back slightly arched, while he keeps slamming his damn hand into my thighs. “Keep your hands where I left them. Curse me all you like. Let it all out.”
I curse him as the hits keep coming, grinding the pain further and further into me. My voice thickens and my words lose shape. The tears burn and flow. I sob out all my turmoil as he peppers my upper thighs with strokes that feel like he’s flaying the muscle right off my bones.
Finally, there’s a stroke that doesn’t fall. His burningly hot palm cups my ass cheek. He rubs, switches cheeks, and rubs again.
“Still hate me, bold girl?” he asks softly.
I don’t hate him at all. I’m calm and empty and strangely grateful to him. When was the last time I felt grateful after a punishment?
“Totally hate you,” I sniffle.
“Yeah, I can tell. I’m going to help you sit up and you’re going to let me get a cloth and wipe your face and then we’re going to have a cuddle. And if you keep locking me out, I’ll turn you around and go at you with the other hand. Your ass will wear out a lot faster than my hands, trust me.”
I do. I trust him. “Yes, Sir.”
“That’s my bold girl.” He helps me off his lap and walks me over to the couch where he lies me on my side, so my tormented thighs don’t touch the couch.
He returns after a minute with a damp paper towel that he uses to wipe my face and holds over my nose until I blow.
Then he slides onto the couch and pulls me on top of him.
His jeans are rough against the fronts of my thigh, but there’s no bulge biting into me. Didn’t the spanking get him hard?
His hand settles at my nape and he tucks my face into his neck. His spicy, clean scent, flavored with the salt of sweat, rushes up my nose, down into my lungs. It fills me with a sense of rightness.
“Now that you’re calm, tell me how you’re going to recreate your design book,” he rumbles, his heavy chest rising and falling beneath me.
I settle into him, fitting my curves into the planes of his body. “A lot of hard work. I have pictures on my phone. They’re not as good. I will redraw everything. It’ll just take time.”
“Good. I know it hurts, but I also know you can do it.” He squeezes me gently. “In the meanwhile, we’ll find somewhere that does high resolution prints, so you have something for your clients to look at.”
“That’s a good idea. Thanks.” I take a deep breath and let it out. “I’m sorry I was an asshole, Sir.”
“Apology accepted, sweetheart.”
“I just . . . it’s my business, Sir. It’s different.”
“No, Bren, it’s not. I’m not trying to control your business. I’m controlling you. Do you understand the difference?”
Now that he says it, I do. I nod into his neck.
“Words, girl.”
“Yes, Sir, I understand the difference.”
He rubs his hand up and down my back. “Good girl. That gets you T-Relief, because you are going to have some bruises.”
I can believe it. “My thighs are on fire, Sir.”
“I bet they are, you little leather-ass. I had to tell you to let go about a hundred times before you actually did.”
“It wasn’t even a dozen times,” I grumble.
Mac chuckles. “You are such a hard-case sometimes, Bren. You’re not getting out of a punishment, either.”
“What?” I try to sit up straight but Mac clamps the back of my neck and holds me in place.
“I said, cuddle.”
“You punished me already!” I protest but nuzzle back into his neck.
“That wasn’t a punishment, girl. That was for your benefit. You needed to open up and let me help you deal with what’s happening. Punishment’s a separate beast. And I’ll give you a hint, it’s not going to involve impact.”
What? Punishment’s always impact. Or riding a damn wooden horse, if it’s Ten.
“I don’t understand.”
“If you’re getting punished, it’s because you’ve defied me. Punishment’s about our power-exchange. Expect me to make you submit in ways I haven’t before and that deepen our relationship.”
“Oh.” I swallow hard. “Okay.”
“Okay? That’s all you’ve got? ‘Cause that’d be a first, my little sammie.”
“I’m not a smart-assed masochist,” I grumble.
“Sure.” Mac’s laughter bounces me on his barrel chest. “Seriously, how are you doing now?”
“I’m okay . . . I’m good, actually, except that my thighs hurt.” I reach back and rub. “Any chance of that T-Relief now, Sir?”
“Yes, girl. How about a bath and some cream and then you can draw this design for Nicky so it’s not hanging over you. Then, if you can stay this open with me, we’ll have a nice fuck before you write me a five-hundred-word essay on toxic independence.”
“Toxic independence!” I huff.
“You heard me.”
“I can’t— I mean, I’m not very good at writing things.
That’s, um, the reason I didn’t end up going to college.
My high school math and science grades were okay.
But I had trouble with English, history, social studies, anything where I needed to write.
Guidance counsellors said college probably wasn’t for me because I struggled with essays.
My personal statement on college applications wasn’t even good enough. ”
Mac rubs my back quietly for a long moment.
“I understand what you’re saying to me, girl.
I understand why this might be hard for you, but I’m not going to change the punishment.
I told you being with me might not always be easy and that I’d push you outside your comfort zone.
I want you to do this for me. There won’t be a time limit on it.
I want you to work on it for an hour each day until you’ve got something to show me.
Doesn’t have to be perfect. I’m not giving you a grade.
I just want you to think and be honest with me. That’s all I’m asking of you.”
I swallow hard. That still seems like a lot to ask. Five hundred words is a fucking ton. Pages, right? I can’t remember the last time I wrote a whole page of anything. I know Emily writes books that are two hundred times that long, and I admire her for that, but I have no idea how she does it.
“Could I ask Emily to read it before I show it to you, Sir?”
“Emily?” he asks.
“Yes, Sir. She’s a really good writer. She’ll tell me if I’ve got it all wrong.”
“Girl, this is not a test. This is about your submission to me. What’s between us. I told you before that no one gets a vote in what’s between us and I meant it. I like that you’re asking for help, but the person you come to for help is me. If you’re struggling that hard, I will help you.”
Something finally, finally clicks. I snuggle back into him and close my eyes, enjoying him holding me. “Yes, Sir.”
“Ah, now there’s where we should be, my bold girl.”
“Your snuggleslut, Sir.”
He adjusts me in his arms so not even a breath can pass between us. “Yes, girl, my snuggleslut.”