"Your mouth lies," I observe clinically, my hand rubbing slow circles on her heated skin. "But your body knows what it needs."
"I don't—" She starts to protest, then gasps as my hand moves lower, pressing against the juncture of her thighs through the wool fabric. Even through the dress, I can feel the dampness there.
"Sixteen," I remind her, bringing my hand down again.
"Sixteen!" The word comes out as almost a moan. "Thank you."
The last four strikes are different. She's not fighting anymore, just accepting what I'm giving her. Her responses come quicker, and that sweet scent of arousal grows stronger until it perfumes the entire room.
"Twenty," she whispers after the final strike. "Thank you."
I keep my hand on her heated bottom, feeling the warmth radiating through the fabric. She's breathing hard, and I can feel tremors running through her body that have nothing to do with pain.
"There," I say softly. "That wasn't so terrible, was it?"
She doesn't answer, just lies across my lap like a broken doll. But I can feel her pulse, can smell her arousal, can sense the war raging inside her between shame and need.
"Your body enjoyed that," I continue, my hand moving in soothing circles. "I can smell how wet you are. How much you liked being held down and disciplined."
"I didn't?—"
"Shh." I let ice form around my fingertips—not cold enough to hurt, just cool enough to soothe. When I press my hand against her heated bottom, she gasps at the relief. "Let me take care of you."
The ice spreads across her skin through the fabric, cooling the sting without numbing it entirely. It's aftercare—the tender attention that comes after discipline, proving that punishment is about correction, not cruelty.
She makes a soft sound that might be relief or confusion or both. Her body goes limp across my lap, finally accepting what I'm offering.
"Better?" I ask.
She nods against my thigh, still not trusting her voice.
"Good." I continue the ice treatment, watching her relax under my touch. "The pain was necessary, but it's over now. You took your punishment beautifully."
The praise makes her shiver, and I file that reaction away for future use. She responds to approval even more strongly after discipline—something about the vulnerability making her crave reassurance.
"Now," I say, helping her slide off my lap to stand on unsteady legs. "You're going to clean up this mess you made. Then you're going to make me a proper breakfast. One that shows respect instead of defiance."
She stares at me with wide eyes, her brown wool dress falling back into place. Her face is flushed, her hair disheveled, andI can see the exact moment she realizes how much her body responded to what just happened.
The shame hits her like a physical blow.
"What if I don't want to?" she asks quietly.
"Then you'll be hungry. And I'll be disappointed. And we both know how much you hate disappointing me now."
She flushes because it's true. Over the past week, my approval has become important to her—more important than her own comfort, apparently. My disappointment has become something she fears.
"I do hate it," she whispers. "I hate that I care what you think."
"I know." I stand and cup her face in my hands, thumbs brushing away tears she doesn't remember shedding. "But caring means you're learning. Growing into what you're meant to be."
"Which is?"
"Perfect." I lean down and press a soft kiss to her forehead—gentle reward after discipline. "Absolutely perfect."
I clean up the broken plate with a gesture, ice sweeping the ceramic shards away like they never existed. Then I return to my chair to wait.
She stares at the space where the broken china used to be, understanding the message. I can make problems disappear just as easily as I can create them. I have all the power here, and her only choice is how she responds to that reality.
