“And did you come?”
“No, sir. You stopped me before?—”
“But you would have. If I hadn’t walked in.”
Shame burned through me. “Yes, sir.”
“This is about trust,” Kiernan said. “I gave you a boundary. You tested it. Now, you learn there are consequences.” His hand stroked down over my ass, gentle and warm. “Twenty strikes. You’ll count each one and thank me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s your safeword?”
“Red.”
“Use it if you need to. There’s no shame in it.” His hand lifted from my skin. “We begin.”
The first strike landed with a sharp crack. Hot, stinging pain bloomed across my right cheek.
“One,” I gasped. “Thank you, sir.”
“Good girl.”
The second strike hit the left side. Harder than the first.
“Two. Thank you, sir.”
The third and fourth came in quick succession, and I jerked with each impact. The pain was bright and immediate, impossible to ignore.
“Three. Thank you, sir. Four. Thank you, sir.”
By the fifth strike, my skin was on fire as much from shame as from the punishment. I’d disappointed him. I’d broken his trust. I deserved this.
“Five. Thank you, sir.”
Kiernan’s hand rubbed over my heated flesh, and I hissed at the contact.
“Five down,” he said. “Fifteen to go. How do you feel?”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“I know. But sorry doesn’t erase the transgression. Only consequences do.” His hand lifted again. “Continue.”
Six through ten came harder than the first five. Each strike drove a cry from my throat. The pain layered on itself, building into something that consumed my entire awareness. I couldn’t think about anything else. Couldn’t think about the club, about Oliver, about my own arousal. There was only the pain and Kiernan’s voice.
“Seven. Thank you, sir. Eight—” My voice broke on a sob. “Thank you, sir.”
“You’re doing well,” Kiernan murmured. “So well. Keep going.”
“Nine. Thank you, sir. Ten. Thank you, sir.”
He stopped. His hand stroked over my punished skin, and I whimpered at the gentleness after so much pain.
“Halfway,” he said. “The shame is fading, isn’t it? The guilt is burning away.”
He was right. Somewhere between five and ten, the shame had transformed. It was still there, but it had become something else. Something cleaner. Each strikefelt like penance. Each burst of pain absolved me a little more.
“Yes, sir,” I whispered.
