Page 22 of Davoren
He moved with deliberate precision to one particular section, reaching for something I'd noticed earlier but tried not to think too hard about. The collar was exactly as I remembered—deep blue like the dress he'd chosen for me, with silver clasps shaped like tiny dragons biting their own tails. The dragon-scale lining caught the light, iridescent and impossibly smooth.
"This marks you as mine," he said, turning back to me with the collar held between his hands. "My Little. My treasured one. My fierce girl who needs guidance and boundaries and the kind of care that comes with correction."
He stepped close, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his skin, and lifted the collar to my throat. The first touch of dragon-scale against my neck sent sparks through every nerve, and I couldn't suppress the whimper that escaped.
"Perfect," he murmured, fastening the clasps with careful fingers. The fit was exact, not tight enough to restrict breathing but present enough that I'd never forget it was there. Thedragon-scale lining was warm against my skin, almost alive, as if it recognized what I'd become and approved.
When he stepped back to admire his handiwork, I saw my reflection in the volcanic glass wall. The collar looked like it had always belonged there, the deep blue a perfect contrast to my skin and the golden lines that decorated it. I looked owned. Claimed.
His.
"Now then," Davoren said, his smile dark with promise, "let's discuss exactly how your trespass will be addressed."
His hand on my lower back guided me deeper into the discipline side of the chamber, past the wall of restraints that seemed to pulse with their own eager energy, toward something I'd only glanced at before—a padded bench that looked like an altar to everything I was about to become. The construction was deliberately dual in nature, like everything in this room—black leather that had been worked until it was soft as silk, stretched over a frame of polished obsidian that caught the light and threw it back in rainbow fractures. The height had been calculated with precision, designed to position someone exactly where they needed to be for correction.
"Over the bench, little one." His voice carried that rumbling authority that made my knees weak and my will dissolve like sugar in rain. "Palms flat against the leather."
The command moved through me via the bond, not quite compulsion but something adjacent to it. My body wanted to obey even as my mind scrambled for some shred of defiance, some proof that I wasn't completely lost to this new existence. But my feet were already moving, carrying me to the bench with the inevitability of water finding its level.
The leather was warm against my palms when I placed them flat, warmer still against my stomach as I bent forward. The position was simultaneously vulnerable and oddly freeing—myback arched, legs spread for balance, presenting my backside in a way that should have mortified me. Instead, the golden lines along my skin flared brighter, as if my transformed body recognized this position, craved it even.
I heard him move to the table of implements, each footstep deliberate, letting me hear him consider options. The sound of his fingers trailing across different tools made my breath catch—wood, leather, that crystalline material I couldn't identify. Then a pause, a soft sound of satisfaction, and his footsteps returning.
"This will sting, Kara." He stood behind me, and I could feel the heat of him even without contact. In his hand—I could see it from the corner of my eye—was the volcanic glass paddle I'd admired earlier. The surface was polished to mirror perfection, edges carefully rounded, the handle wrapped in what looked like drake leather. "Your new body is resilient, but exquisitely sensitive. Every sensation will be amplified, transformed."
The first impact stole every thought from my head.
It was sharp and immediate, the volcanic glass meeting flesh with a crack that echoed off the chamber walls. But the pain—the pain was nothing like I'd expected. It bloomed like fire across my skin, yes, but underneath ran something else, something that went straight to my core and exploded into pure arousal. My body interpreted the strike not as punishment but as claim, possession, proof that I belonged to someone strong enough to mark me.
I gasped, fingers curling against the leather, hips twitching involuntarily. Through the bond, I felt Davoren's satisfaction at my response, his arousal spiking to match mine.
The second strike came while I was still processing the first, landing slightly lower, spreading the heat. Then a third, a fourth, establishing a rhythm that made my hips move without my permission, seeking something, though I wasn't sure if I was trying to escape the paddle or present myself for more.
"Beautiful," he murmured, and I felt him shift position, adjusting his angle. The next strike landed with precision on the spot where thigh met backside, and I cried out at the intensity. The pain transformed immediately into liquid heat that pooled between my legs, making me achingly aware of how wet I'd become.
"Your body knows what it needs," he continued, the paddle finding its rhythm again. "See how you arch for me? How you present yourself for correction? This is what you were made for, little one. To be guided, disciplined, treasured through the kind of attention that leaves marks."
Another strike, harder this time, and my knees nearly buckled. Only his free hand on my lower back kept me in position, that simple touch somehow more intense than the paddle itself. The golden lines on my skin were blazing now, creating their own light in the dim chamber, and I could feel the collar warm against my throat in response.
"You will address me properly during discipline," he commanded, the paddle pausing in its rhythm.
I bit my lip hard enough to taste iron, some last vestige of defiance warring with the overwhelming need to submit. I knew what he wanted, knew the word that hovered on my tongue, but saying it would mean accepting everything—not just the discipline but the dynamic, the roles we were establishing, the complete transformation of who I'd been into who I was becoming.
The paddle came down again, harder than before, the crack of impact followed immediately by waves of sensation that made my vision blur. The pain was exquisite, transforming into pleasure before my nervous system could properly categorize it.
"Properly, Kara." Another strike, precise and devastating. "Who holds the paddle? Who decides when you've had enough? Who owns your pleasure and your pain?"
The need won. It crashed over me like a tide, drowning out every rational thought, every shred of resistance. The word tore from my throat, part surrender and part revelation.
"Daddy."
The word ignited the bond between us like oil on fire. I felt his satisfaction, his approval, his possessive pleasure at my surrender. It flooded through me, amplifying my own arousal until I could barely breathe. The collar around my throat seemed to pulse in recognition, the dragon-scale lining warming against my skin.
"Good girl." The words rumbled through the bond as much as the air, and somehow his praise was more overwhelming than the discipline itself. "My perfect, fierce little one. You take your punishment so beautifully."
Another strike of the paddle, but gentler now, more reminder than punishment. Then another, and another, creating a rhythm that had me rocking back to meet each impact. The pain had transformed entirely into something else—not pleasure exactly, but somethingnew. My backside burned, would probably show marks for days even with my enhanced healing, but I craved each strike like my body craved air.
"That's it," he encouraged, his free hand moving to stroke along my spine, tracing the golden lines there. "Let go. Let yourself feel what you need to feel. There's no shame here, little one. Only truth."
