I followed, breath catching as he raised the T-shirt over my head, exposing me.The fabric brushed over sensitive skin, and the sting flared again, a memory reignited.
Creed didn’t miss it.He placed a hand on my hip, anchoring me gently.“Still sore?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good,” he said softly.“I want you to feel what we’ve already built.”
Then the first slap landed to my buttocks.
Measured.Anchored.A reminder.A signal.A promise.
The heat flared outward, layered over the lingering ache.I gasped in acknowledgment.His hand came down again.Then again.Rhythm steady.Intention sharp.
“You agreed to this,” he said, his tone steady.
“I did.”
“Because?”
“Because we have an agreement.Because I trust you.”
Another slap, sharper now.My moan cracked open, heat pouring from between my thighs.My fingers gripped the mattress.I didn’t flinch.I leaned into the sting, into the memory of earlier impact, into everything we were building.
Each strike was a lesson.Not in punishment.But in presence.In discipline.
“Good girl,” he murmured.“Still with me?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Creed pulled my hair gently.My head lifted.I met his gaze.
“Plug,” he said.“Breathe for me.”
I did.Deep.Controlled.
“You still want this?”
“Yes.Please.”
His fingers coated the toy with lube, the cool silicone slick.I braced, my forehead resting against the sheets.
“Relax,” he whispered, one hand at my lower back.“We’ll go slow.”
And he did.
He pressed the toy in carefully, feeling each inch of tension before coaxing it open.My body tensed, then adjusted.The stretch, full and grounding, settled into me.
“Good,” he said.“Such strength.Such trust.”
Then, the vibrator.
He hovered it over my clit, letting the vibration tease.I moaned, hips jerking forward.
“Hold your position,” he instructed.
I obeyed, trembling.
“Not yet,” he said.“Not until you say it like you mean it.”
