Page 35 of Carrick
I stepped closer until her scent hit me—faint sweat, warmed skin, the ghost of citrus still clinging to her hair. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t even blink.
I reached out slowly, my fingers brushing beneath her chin. Her skin was warm—flushed, already humming with anticipation. I stared deeply into her eyes, and she stared right back. There was no hesitation there. Her gaze was clear. Steady. Glinting with something that looked dangerously close to reverence.
“You’ll get what you asked for,” I said, barely more than a growl. “But only if you give me everything.”
Her breath shuddered.
“Not just your submission,” I continued. “Not just your body. I want your fear. Your frustration. The chaos in your head. All of it.”
I brushed my thumb along her jaw, pausing just long enough to ask without pressure. “Give it to me—and I’ll carry it. All of it.”
Silence. A single breath. “I’m yours,” she said, steady and certain. “For tonight, I’m yours.”
My control locked down like a fist around my spine. The words slammed into me with the weight of something I didn’t yet know how to name.
Not ownership. Not possession. But somethingcloser.Somethingheavier.
I didn’t let myself fall into it. Not yet.
I walked over to the opposite side of the room, and pulled my custom made spanking bench into the center of the room, where I would have full range of motion from any angle, with any tool. I ran my hand over the hand-stitched Italian leather, dyeda deep mahogany. It was one of my most prized possessions, and had cost me an embarrassingly large sum of money to have made. But it was worth every penny.
My voice dropped to a low, hard edge. The tone that came from somewhere deeper than command. It came from need.
“Then we are ready to begin. Stand up and get on the bench.”
She moved the instant I spoke—no hesitation, no doubt. Just obedience laced with intention. Her knees found the padding, palms braced, back arching in silent offering. Her breath came fast but steady, charged with focus, not fear. Already inside herself. Already shifting. And fuck, she was stunning like this—not conquered, not broken. Just open. Willing. Burning. A spirit waiting to be tempered.
I circled her slowly, boots whispering against the floor, letting every step build weight. She wasn’t shaking, but tension coiled in her thighs, shoulders, jaw.
Perfect anticipation—the kind I fed on.
I paused behind her, eyes catching on the lace still clinging to her hips. Delicate. Defiant. Armor she wouldn’t need for long. I ran two fingers down her spine—light as breath—and she shivered.
Not from cold. From attention.
Then I struck.
My palm cracked against her ass, sharp and deliberate. She gasped, jolting forward into the bench, breath punched from her lungs. And in my chest, something primal unfurled—not lust, not exactly. Satisfaction. Control.
That sound—the sting of skin, her gasp caught between shock and surrender—was everything I’d been craving.
I struck again, the other cheek with same force. A red bloom spread beneath the lace, and I ached to match it. Again. Again. I fell into rhythm—open-handed, deliberate, timed. Notpunishment. A slow burn. Each strike pulling her deeper into the moment. Into me.
Her breath changed—thicker, throatier. The hitch became a stuttering exhale, like she was riding the edge, waiting for the drop.
Her thighs trembled—but she held. No flinch. No retreat.
Good girl.
The words burned on my tongue, but I held them back. Not yet.
Instead, I reached for the bat—thick and heavy in my grip. She couldn’t see it, but I knew she’d feel the shift the moment my arm rose.
The first thud landed low, across both cheeks and the tops of her thighs. She moaned—low, breathy.
Not pain. Not pleasure.
Release.
