“Yes, Sir,” she said breathlessly, her brilliant blue eyes widening as he kept his hand on her throat. “I’m sorry, Sir.”
“Sorry is good, but it’s not enough. You should know better, and you’ll be punished accordingly as soon as we get out of the shower.”Letting her go, he gripped her nipples, catching them between thumb and forefinger and twisting until she winced. They hardened beneath his fingers, plump little berries he wanted to bite.
Dropping his hands, he commanded, “Wait up position.”
Cleo at once spread her legs shoulder-width apart and crossed her wrists above her head, assuming the Masters Club position. The warm water sluiced down her naked, slender form, her engorged nipples bright red from his attentions.
Bending down, Jack retrieved the soap and rubbed it in his hands. Setting it on the ledge, he ran his hands down her sides and over the soft curve of her hips. A tremor moved through her body at his touch. Re-soaping his hands, he hefted her heavy breasts and tweaked her sensitized nipples, pulling a soft cry from her lips.
Suddenly needing skin on skin, he spun her so her back was to him, her head against his chest. “Lower your arms,” he directed. He pulled her close and reached his hand between her legs, massaging the delicate folds of her sex with soapy fingers. She moaned, the little pea of her clit hardening beneath his touch.
He loved how sexually responsive she was, though the jury was still out on whether her response was personal or just a hardwired reaction to his dominance. Letting her go, he took a step back.
“Lean your head back,” he directed. “I’m going to wash your hair.”
He squirted some shampoo onto his palm and massaged it gently into her scalp. A feeling of almost paternal tenderness rose in him. It was such a strange dichotomy that existed inside him, and indeed all people who craved the intensity of BDSM. He loved to inflict erotic pain, thrilling to the breathy cries and gasps of his chosen sub girl as he whipped, cropped, spanked and bound her. During a good scene, he felt like a god—invincible and in total control.
Though many of the Doms at the Masters Club left the aftercare to service slaves, Jack had never liked to do that. Sometimes the most powerful moments weren’t during an actual scene, but afterward, as he soothed away the erotic pain he himself had inflicted and kissed away the tears.
As he rinsed the last of the shampoo from Cleo’s hair, Jack was suddenly eager to be done with ablutions. He washed himself quickly, his eyes on the naked girl standing beside him.
Turning to her, he said, “Step out of the stall and wait on the mat.”
She opened the door and stepped out. There was a stack of thick bath towels neatly folded on the counter. He was pleased to see she didn’t reach for one. Good girl. Instead, she stood dripping on the bath mat, her long hair hanging down her back like wet silk.
He turned off the water and climbed out. Reaching for a towel, he dried himself as he watched her. Goosebumps stippled her flesh, and she’d wrapped her arms around her wet body, but her face was calm, even serene. Dropping his towel, he reached for a second one.
“Wait up,” he directed.
She assumed the position, standing still as he gently dried her hair, face and body. Finally, crouching before her, he dried her legs, the paternal feeling again taking over. When he was done, he rose to his feet and turned on his heel.
“Let’s go,” he said, not looking back as he headed into the bedroom. “It’s time for your punishment.”
Jack walked to the bed and sat down. He patted his lap as she came out of the bathroom. “A good, hard spanking should help you remember that a slave does not anticipate or assume.”
Cleo approached and lowered herself carefully over his lap. His cock, fully erect now in spite of the recent climax, was trapped between his thigh and her hip. Ignoring it for the moment, he cupped her small, rounded ass cheeks, giving them a squeeze. She had two adorable dimples, one above each perfect globe.
“Twenty strokes. You will count aloud, alternating between these two statements as you say each number: ‘A proper slave does not anticipate.’ ‘A proper slave does not assume.’”
It being a punishment, he didn’t ease her into the process. He brought his hand down hard with a crack, cupping his palm just so to add to the sting.
“One,” she cried in a startled voice. And then, a beat later, “A proper slave does not anticipate, Sir!”
He struck again.
“Two,” she managed, more in control now. “A proper slave does not assume, Sir.”
On they went, until the count of twenty. His palm stung, no doubt only a dim comparison to the sting radiating over her now bright-red bottom. He resisted the urge to lean down and kiss the heated flesh or lightly stroke the pain away. Instead, he gave her a slight push.