Eventually the sobs quieted. Became smaller. Then just breathing. Shaky and uneven but calming.
His hand continued stroking my back. Patient. Not rushing me.
When I finally lifted my head, my face was a mess. Tears and snot and probably mascara everywhere. I must have looked terrible.
But Nikolai just cupped my face in his hands. Thumbs wiping at my wet cheeks. Looking at me like I was something precious.
"There you are," he said softly.
I tried to speak. Couldn't. My throat was too raw.
He seemed to understand. Reached for something on the side table beside his chair.
A tube of arnica cream. The kind dancers used for bruises and sore muscles. He'd had it ready. Had planned for this moment. Had known I'd need physical aftercare after the discipline.
The realization made my chest tight. He'd thought ahead. Had prepared to care for what he was going to do to me.
"Stand up for me, devotchka," he said gently. "Let me take care of you."
I stood on shaking legs. My leggings were still bunched around my thighs. My bottom throbbed with every movement.
He guided me to step out of the leggings completely. First one leg, then the other. His hands were steady where mine were shaking. When the fabric was clear, he set them aside carefully. Not thrown. Folded and placed on the chair arm like they mattered.
"Bend over the chair arm," he said. His voice was still gentle but firm. Still commanding. "Just like before."
I bent forward. The position put my bottom in the air, exposed in just my flowered cotton panties. My face heated. This was different than the spanking. More vulnerable somehow.
Because now he was looking at what he'd done. At the evidence of his discipline.
I heard the cap opening. Then his hands were on me. One palm resting on my lower back. The other—
Cool cream against heated skin. I gasped. The sensation was immediate—cooling, soothing, easing the burn.
"I know," he murmured. "Just relax. Let me make it better."
His hands rubbed the cream in with careful precision. Not roughly. Not carelessly. With the same meticulous attention he brought to everything. Covering every inch of reddened skin. Taking his time. Making sure I was cared for.
The intimacy of it made my breath catch. He was touching me so gently. So reverently. Like tending to my sore bottom was an honor rather than an obligation.
His fingers traced the edges where my panties met skin. Slipped barely underneath to reach the spots he'd spanked lower. The touch was clinical but tender. Focused on my comfort rather than anything sexual.
Though my body didn't get the memo. I was acutely aware of how close his hands were to other places. How the position had me bent and exposed. How I was still wet from the discipline, arousal mixing with the burn in a way that should have been confusing but just felt right.
"Almost done," he said quietly. His hands kept working. Rubbing the cream in with gentle circular motions. "You're doing so well, devotchka. Taking such good care for me."
The praise made warmth bloom in my chest despite everything. Made me feel good and cared for and safe.
When he'd covered every inch of reddened skin, he capped the tube. Helped me stand. His hands on my hips were gentle. Steadying.
"Leggings back on," he said. "Nice and slow."
He held the fabric while I stepped in. One leg at a time. Pulled them up carefully, mindful of my sore bottom. The soft fabric settling against my heated skin made me wince slightly, but thecream helped. The burn was already less sharp. More of a deep ache. A reminder.
When I was dressed again, he sat back in his chair. Patted his lap. Different than before. This wasn't a summons to discipline. This was an invitation to be held.
I settled in sideways this time. My legs across his lap, my head on his shoulder. Curling into him like a child seeking comfort.
His arms wrapped around me immediately. Secure. Protective. One hand stroking my hair. The other resting on my hip.
