Strike, soothe, tease.
Each cycle tighter, harder, until the numbers become a fragmented litany:
“Thirteen...”
“Fourteen...
“Oh god, fifteen...”
Sweat glistens on her back, and I lean down to lick a bead from her shoulder blade, tasting salt and lavender.
Her body quivers, poised on a knife-edge.
Sixteen,” she pants.
I deliver two quick, sharp smacks tothose ever-widening pink spots, the kind that make her yelp and dig her nails into me.
I pause, letting the burn settle, my fingers slipping under the lace to find her soaked.
“Count properly, Jess,” I order, circling her clit with agonizing slowness.
“Seventeen,” she sobs, her hips grinding against my hand.
I increase the pressure, just for a heartbeat, then pull away to resume the spanking.
The next volley is relentless... eighteen, nineteen, twenty... each impact echoing like a loudly in the charged air.
By twenty-one, she’s shaking, tears pricking her eyes, but she doesn’t break.
I stop, smoothing my palm over the fevered skin, feeling the heat radiate.
“Look at me,” I demand.
She twists her head, eyes wide and dark with need.
“Why are you counting?” I ask, my thumb stroking her lower lip.
“What?” she asks, confused. Her eyes are lidded.
“Why are you counting each spank?” I repeat.
She seems to understand what I want.
“Tofeelyou,” she whispers. “To be...yours.”
That surrender unravels something in me.
I land the final blow, twenty-two, much softer than the others, a seal on her obedience.
Then I kiss her, deep and possessive, my tongue claiming her mouth as my hands claim her body.
“Good girl,” I breathe against her lips. “Perfect.”
I help her up, her legs unsteady, and hold her close, feeling her heartbeat pound against mine.
It’s done.
She’s marked, centered, and utterly mine.
