And that single wordrunhits me like lightning.
I don’t think.
I sprint.
Once I reach the playroom, I move quickly, slipping outof my clothes and folding them with the precision he drilled into me. My fingers tremble, but I make sure each piece is neatly stacked, aligning the edges just like he likes. I sink to my knees, facing away from the door, spine straight, hands resting on my thighs with palms up, exactly as he taught me. My heart hammers with fear and a flicker of excitement, but I don’t dare look back or shift my weight.
And then I wait.
At first, I’m determined, keeping perfectly still, letting him see I can be obedient, that I can take whatever he decides to dish out. But minutes tick by—maybe hours, I can’t tell anymore. My neck aches and my muscles are burning from holding this position, but I grit my teeth and stay rooted. The silence presses in around me, stretching on and on, and the uncertainty gnaws at me. How long does he plan to make me wait like this? I squirm internally, itching to move, to adjust, to even glance at the door just to see if he’s watching.
But I don’t. I hold on, swallowing back my impatience, refusing to give in. He knows how much I hate staying in one place for too long, how much the unknown messes with my head. I think that’s exactly why he’s making me wait like this, testing me, seeing if I’ll crack before he even lays a hand on me.
Finally, I hear the soft click of the door and his slow footsteps as he steps inside. I force myself to remain still, my breathing shallow, my pulse spiking with both dread and desire, but he doesn’t come to me. He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t even speak to me. My skin prickles. I’m desperate to know what he’s doing, but I know looking around would only make things worse.
My impatience gets the best of me. “Calvin, I… I know I was out of line. I’m sorry,” I try to sound apologetic but I can’t help the teasing edge in my voice, a bratty tone I know hewon’t ignore. He stays silent, and my frustration bubbles up. “Calvin, come on. Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?”
Silence.
When I think I can’t handle another second of this, he steps closer, and I feel his strong hand grip the back of my neck. The heat of his touch shoots down my spine, and I stifle a gasp as he pulls me to my feet.
“Unless you’re about to use your safe word,” he says, his voice dangerously low, “keep that mouth shut.”
My lips part, but he raises an eyebrow, daring me to defy him. I close my mouth. He gives me another second to maybe see if I’ll defy him, and when I don’t, he guides me over to the St. Andrew’s cross, securing my wrists and ankles until I’m spread out and utterly vulnerable.
I can’t see him because I’m facing away, bound to the cross, but I feel him. Every inch of him. With every steady breath he takes, each calm, measured exhale, the warmth of his presence fills the room. My heart pounds with every second that drags by, but he remains quiet, letting me stew in the tension he’s created.
Finally, the tension uncoils as he steps closer, and I can feel his breath ghosting over the back of my neck. His hand grazes my shoulder, just the lightest touch, and it’s enough to make me bite down hard, fighting the urge to beg.
Without a word, he presses a slow, featherlight kiss just below my ear, the softness catching me off guard. I feel his lips curve into a smirk against my skin as if he knows exactly how much his dominance is unraveling me.
“Tell me, Blair. Why are you here?”
I swallow, hating that he is calling me by my name even as I whisper, “Because I was a brat.”
“And?”
Heat rises to my face. “Because I disrespected you.”
“That’s right. And because you don’t know when to stop talking, I’ll flog you twenty times,” he says before I feel him step away. “Safe word?”
“Velvet.”
“Count for me. If you lose count, we start over. Am I understood?”
I grit my teeth, wanting to tell him off but knowing better. “Yes, Sir.”
After what feels like an eternity, I feel the soft leather of the flogger graze my skin. My heart races, each teasing touch enough to set me on edge, and then, he begins.
The first strike lands, sharp and precise, sending a sting through me that blossoms into warmth, grounding me, pulling me under his spell. I let out a soft gasp, counting, “One.”
The strikes continue in a rhythm that’s both punishing and intoxicating, forcing me to stay present, to submit to the discipline I know I deserve. By the time we reach twenty, my body is humming, every nerve raw and alive. I feel a tear slip down my cheek and murmur soft apologies between shaky breaths.
Calvin gently caresses the raised, sensitive welts. “Beautiful,” he says. “You wear my marks so well.”
I close my eyes, letting his words wash over me until they become something more than sound.
Then comes the sound, the slow slide of a zipper. For one breathless moment, it feels like being rescued, or chosen.
