She stares at the approaching ice, then at me, calculating her options. I can smell her fear spiking, sharp and acidic beneath the roses. But underneath that is something else—something that makes my cocks begin to harden in anticipation.
Arousal. Faint but unmistakable.
Her body knows what's coming, even if her mind hasn't caught up yet.
"You're insane," she gasps.
"I'm patient. There's a difference." The ice is ten feet away now, spiraling in hypnotic patterns that catch the light likecaptured starlight. "Choose, Elise. Over my knee, or frozen in place until I decide you've learned your lesson."
She looks between me and the approaching ice, and I can see the exact moment her survival instincts override her pride. The ice is five feet away when she finally moves, crossing to me with quick, angry steps.
"Good girl," I say softly, and watch her flinch at the praise she doesn't want to crave.
I settle back into my chair—not the formal dining chair, but the larger one I had the palace provide for exactly this purpose. Solid wood, no arms, perfect for what I have planned.
"Over my knee."
"I'm not a child?—"
"No, you're not. You're a disobedient omega who needs to learn that actions have consequences." I pat my thigh with deliberate calm. "Lie across my lap. Now."
She hesitates for a long moment, pride warring with necessity. I let the silence stretch, let her understand that I'm prepared to wait as long as it takes. The ice continues to spread across the floor behind her, patient as death.
Finally, she moves to my side. Her hands are shaking as she positions herself across my lap, and I can feel the tension in every line of her body. She's never been physically disciplined in her life—has never been held accountable for her actions in any meaningful way.
That ends today.
I take a moment to appreciate the picture she makes—brown wool dress pulled tight across her curves, auburn hair falling forward to hide her face, hands braced against the floor for balance. She fits perfectly across my thighs, like she was made for this position.
The sight of her submissive posture, combined with her scent of rising arousal and fear, sends heat straight to my cocks. Bothof them harden appreciably, pressing against the fabric of my trousers. But I don't let my physical response affect my control. This is about her education, not my gratification.
"Twenty strikes," I tell her, keeping my voice level despite the desire coursing through me. "You'll count each one, and you'll thank me for it. If you lose count or forget to thank me, we start over."
"You can't be serious?—"
My hand comes down across her ass with controlled force. Not hard enough to seriously hurt, but firm enough to sting through the wool fabric. She yelps and jerks forward, more from surprise than pain.
"That was a practice swing. We haven't started counting yet." I rest my hand on her heated bottom, feeling the warmth through the fabric. "Would you like to try this again?"
She doesn't answer, just breathes heavily against my legs. I can feel her pulse racing, can smell the way her scent is shifting from pure fear to something more complex.
"I said twenty strikes. You'll count each one and thank me for it." My voice carries absolute authority. "Begin."
The first real strike lands with a satisfying crack that echoes through the kitchen. She cries out—part pain, part shock at the reality of what's happening.
"One," she gasps eventually. "Thank you."
"Good girl." I rub the spot I've just struck, feeling the heat through her dress. "Nineteen more."
The second strike lands on the other side, and this time she's quicker with her response. "Two. Thank you."
I establish a rhythm—firm, controlled strikes that sting but don't cause real damage. This isn't about brutality; it's about establishing dominance, teaching her that her body belongs to me just as much as the rest of her. Each strike is carefully placed, building heat across her bottom that will linger for hours.
By the fifteenth strike, I can feel my own control being tested. The sight of her submission, the sweet scent of her arousal, the way she's learning to accept my dominance—it all affects me more than I expected. But I maintain perfect discipline, focusing on her responses rather than my own physical reaction.
"Fifteen," she gasps, but her voice has lost its edge of pure distress. There's something else there now—confusion, maybe even arousal. "Thank you."
I can smell it clearly now. Beneath the fear and pain is the unmistakable scent of female arousal. Sweet and warm and growing stronger with each strike. Her body is responding despite her mind's protests, omega nature recognizing the dominance of her alpha.
