Page 31 of Reclaimed

I was shaking, but I did as I was told.

“Wait here.”

He returned shortly after with – I presumed – the necessary tools to punish me. I felt breathless but managed to maintain my composure.

“How many drinks did you have?”

“Two,” I answered while staring down at the blankets.

“How many cigarettes did you have?”

“That was my second.”

“Did you take anything else?”

I was slightly taken aback by his question but then figured there must be medicines somewhere in the kitchen. “No.”

“Why were you drinking by yourself at night when you know it’s against the rules?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Were you not comfortable?”

“I couldn’t stop thinking. I wanted to quiet my head.”

“I see. And did it work?”

“A little.”

“Well, then, two drinks, and two cigarettes – I think, two strikes for each transgression is fair, don’t you?”

I nodded. My inner sub was shivering in anticipation. This wasn’t violent, furious Ray; this was calm, in control, dominant Ray, and he was much harder for me to fight against.

I wasn’t prepared for the first strike of the crop, and the blow was hard. We weren’t playing – this was a punishment, meant to deter, meant to hurt. But eight wasn’t many, I told myself; I could handle eight. By the fourth strike, I wasn’t so sure. Ray was careful to land the blows in different places each time, which meant it was never excruciating, but each strike was so sharp that it already felt like my behind and back were on fire. By the sixth strike, I was starting to feel light-headed, the way I did when I entered subspace. I bit my lip, determined not to back away from my punishment. My whole body was quivering, and my arms wanted to give out, but I forced my body to stay strong until the end of the eighth strike. When I finally sank down to the bed after the final hit, I felt so much relief. I hadn’t been hit like that in a long time, and the pain was intense, but I was proud to have endured it.

Ray sat beside me and stroked my hair.

“Did that help to quiet your head?”

I realised it had, and now I was finding it hard to stay awake.

“Yes,” I whispered hazily. “Thank you.”

“Good girl. Get some sleep.”

I felt disappointed when he turned to leave. When we used to play, Ray had always been diligent about aftercare. No matter how tired he was, he would stay awake talking to me and holding me, letting me know I was loved, until I felt safe and comfortable again. But we weren’t in a world with aftercare anymore. This wasn’t a scene. And I think the beating was only one element of my punishment. Leaving me in subspace, pining for him, deprived of his touch – in a short space of time, he’d managed to make that far worse to me. I fell asleep wishing I was back in his bed.

14

I wasn’t without his presence long. He came to wake me early the next morning with a large mug of coffee.

“Thought you might need this. How’s your head?”

“Not too bad, thanks.”

“How’s your back?”

“Okay. It doesn’t hurt.”

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