My throat tightens. "Because I didn't meet my word count, and I wasn’t waiting for you at the door."
"Exactly." His tone stays even, thumb stroking once. "This is what happens when you break our agreement. But I'm here to take care of you. To help you write, to push you toward what you want. I love making you come, using every inch of you for my pleasure. But sometimes, you need to be punished."
He presses a kiss to my shoulder blade. "You're doing a good job, taking your punishment so well for me. Five more. Count."
The sixth snaps, overlapping the fourth, fresh fire exploding.
"Six," I whimper, body rocking.
By eight, tears prick my eyes, pain blurring with the wet heat pooling inside me. I want to beg for it to end, but my hips tilt up, chasing the next.
"Eight."
The ninth makes everything tingle into a deep throb that has me sobbing softly.
"Nine."
The tenth falls final, sealing the burn. I shatter, tears spilling freely, body convulsing. Sobs rack me, cathartic waves crashing out every doubt, every failure, every word that wouldn't come today. Pain pours from me, leaving a hollow space.
Asher pulls me up immediately, flipping me into his lap so my face buries against his chest. His arms wrap around me tight, one hand stroking my hair, the other rubbing slow circles on my back. "Shh, I've got you, Sugar. You did such a good job." His voice rumbles against me, lips pressing to my forehead. "My good girl, I'm so proud of you."
Warmth seeps in through the ache, his hold steady, unyielding. He’s filling that emptiness inside with warmth and care and the praise that gives me butterflies.
Which seems strange, considering I just let him spank me. But that feeling remains as he holds me and soothes me, like I actually mean something to him.
Later, after Asher’s made us both come, showered me, rubbed a soothing balm on my cheeks, and dressed me in soft pajamas, hetakes me downstairs and warms up dinner. I sit on my normal stool, my head still a little fuzzy from the punishment and the orgasm.
"Why didn't you write today?" He doesn’t look at me when he asks. It sounds so casual as he spoons rice into a bowl. But I know he wants the answer. The punishment might be for my benefit, but somewhere deep inside, I think Asher actually cares about my happiness, and he knows that my writing is important to me. In the time we’ve had this arrangement, I haven’t missed a word count, so it’s obvious something is off.
I twist my fingers together and pick at my cuticles. The skin around my nails is pink and healthy, and I don’t think I remember a time when my hands have ever looked like this. For years now, my cuticles have been picked over.
I’m still tearing at the skin when Asher rounds the counter and covers my hands with his. “Talk to me,” he says softly.
"I tried." It catches in my throat. I can’t describe what this feeling is… He’s being so soft and gentle with me, and my thoughts are twisting in my head. Because logically, I know this is fake. But right now, it doesn’tfeelfake. It feels like he truly cares. And I try to tell myself it's just because I’m his submissive and he’s promised to take care of me.
"Look at me." His voice is firmer this time. "Why?"
The question hangs, demanding the truth. Heat stings my eyes. "I got stuck. In my head. Every time I opened the file, it overwhelmed me. Like... the words wouldn't come right. Everything felt wrong."
He nods, no judgment in his eyes. Just listening. "What overwhelmed you?"
Tears prick. I don’t want to talk about this part with him. I don’t want to admit that I've taken inspiration from our lives for this story, and now I’m at a point where something has togive. Where the couple needs to change, shedding their fears and admitting their feelings to each other.
But I can’t write that.
Because I can’t even admit my own feelings to Asher.
When I don’t answer, Asher pulls me against his chest, wrapping his arms around me and holding me.
The gesture is overwhelming.
It’s soft, sweet,loving.Everything we’re not supposed to be. And when my tears begin to fall once more, all my emotions bubbling to the surface, he continues to hold me, stroke my hair, and whisper sweet nothings.
After I’ve stopped crying, and he’s fed me dinner, he brings me back up to his room, where he fucks me on his bed, but it’s different. It’s slower, more tender, and there’s a look in his eyes that I haven’t seen before.
That night, he holds me against his chest, and I fall asleep to the sound of his breathing for the first time in his bed, wondering if things are becoming more real than fake.
Or if I’m just seeing things I want to see.
