The door swings open, slamming back towards the wall. He looms in the doorway, eyes raking over me with predatory intensity. "You were supposed to follow me," he growls, grabbing my wrist and yanking me into the room.
I stumble, nearly losing my balance. "I'm sorry, I just needed to use the bathroom.”
"I don't care what you needed," he cuts me off sharply. "When I give you an order, you obey immediately. Is that clear?"
I nod quickly, the little bit of equilibrium I so recently regained rapidly slipping away. "Yes, Sir. I'm sorry."
“It seems like a little more correction is necessary,” he states, his voice a frozen chip of ice betraying not the slightest iota of warmth.
It’s like he’s a different person from the shouldering hot man who fucked me only thirty minutes ago.
My stomach drops at his words. I had hoped my momentary lapse would be overlooked or at least be excused as a call of nature. That seemed reasonable enough, and it is my first day, after all. But clearly I was mistaken. His hold on my wrist tightens as he pulls me further into the bedroom.
"I-I didn't mean to disobey," I stammer, desperately trying to backpedal. "It won't happen again."
He regards me coldly, unmoved by my plea. "You're right, it won't. Because I'm going to ensure the lesson sinks in this time.”
My eyes dart around the room, taking in once again the array of implements laid out on the bedside table. My heart races as I wonder which one he'll choose, because this time, I know he will. The flogger? The cane? Something even more sinister?
He releases my wrist and circles behind me - again - his presence looming. I resist the urge to turn and face him, knowing it will only anger him further.
"Strip," he commands. "Everything off. Now."
My fingers are clumsy as I fumble with the buttons and zippers of the maid outfit. I peel it off slowly, hyper aware of his intense scrutiny. When I'm fully naked, I stand there shivering, arms crossed protectively over my chest. His eyes rake over me, taking in every curve and imperfection, and even though he keeps doing this, I still feel defenseless and vulnerable.
"Hands at your sides," he barks, and reluctantly, I let my arms fall, leaving myself open to his intense examination. Well, it’s not like it’s the first time. This seems to be some weird ritual he enjoys. Something designed to intimidate.
And it does.
My skin prickles under his study, and I tense, waiting for his next move.
"Bend over and grab your ankles," he commands.
My face flushes hot with humiliation, but I do as I’m told, folding myself in half. The position leaves me utterly exposed. I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to see his reaction, or whatever implement he chooses for this latest punishment.
My butt is still stinging from his belt, but instinctively, I know this will be much, much worse.
It’s even worse than that.
There’s a whistle and a displacement of air, and that’s the only warning I get before what I think must be a cane sears across both my butt cheeks.
I don’t yelp; I scream and almost faceplant the floor. Would have if his arm hadn’t darted out to catch me.
But despite that, there’s no mercy. He strikes again and again in burning stripes down my buttocks. There’s no time to assimilate, no opportunity to regain my equilibrium between the excruciating blows. The pain builds quickly, radiating across my skin, layer upon layer of it.
By three strikes, tears are pricking at my eyes. By five, I'm openly crying, my voice wavering as I start begging for him to stop.
There’s a word, isn’t there? A word to stop this. What the fuck is it?
My mind’s a blank as I scrabble for it.
Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.
I let out a mournful howl as another strike falls, and suddenly it’s there.
Red! The safe word is red.
I gasp a breath and open my mouth to shout it out, but the word doesn’t come.
