The Dominant (9 page)

“Nathaniel,” Jackson said, breaking my concentration. “You okay? You spaced there for a minute.”

“What?” I blinked a few times. “I’m fine, just a bit tired.”

“You? Tired?” He didn’t look convinced. “Nah. Can’t be.”

Suddenly, I didn’t want noise anymore. I wanted quiet. Quiet so I could think. “Actually, Jackson, I think I’m going to head
on upstairs. Good luck at the game tomorrow.”

He looked at me funny, but stood and gathered his coat. “Okay, if you say so.”

I walked him to the door, took Apollo out one last time, and made my way upstairs. The whipping bench still stood in my room.
I might as well leave it there. Odds were good I would have need of it Friday night.

Damn it, Abigail.

Maybe, just maybe, she would end up getting eight hours of sleep somehow. Doubtful, but I could still hope.

I sat on my bed and thought back to my time with Paul, the dominant who had been my mentor. The only person I’d ever subbed
for. He’d given me several instructions on punishment, the first rule being not to punish out of anger. Thus far I’d never
done so, and I felt certain that by Friday night I’d be calmer.

My packet of instructions to Abigail listed the consequences
for disobedience. Beside “lack of sleep,” I’d listed spanking, twenty strokes per hour lost.

At the time it’d made sense; looking back it seemed a little high. A little too much. Should I change it? Would Abigail notice?

No. I couldn’t change it and keep any of the respect I needed as her dominant. Twenty strokes it would be.

I remembered something else Paul told me—make the first punishment memorable and you wouldn’t be doing it again anytime soon.

Yes. I would make it memorable, and in doing so, perhaps straighten out the rest of her behavior as well—no more raised eyebrows
or hesitations.

The voice in the back of my head warned me I could not punish her for those things. They were in the past. I’d let them slide
and that was my fault. To bring them up would be wrong.

But if I made the punishment memorable enough, it would have a deterrent effect.

I sighed and made my way to the playroom, where I chose a leather strap. Back in my bedroom, I placed it on my dresser. If
I looked at it and the bench all week, maybe I’d feel ready by Friday.

I could do it. I knew I could.

I was Abigail’s dominant, after all, and it was time I started acting the part.

Paul had taught me three kinds of spankings—erotic, warm-up, and chastisement.

I’d given Abigail a taste of an erotic spanking with the riding crop during our first weekend together. Erotic spankings tantalized
the recipient, heightened their pleasure—took them to a new level.

Unlike the next two spankings.

The warm-up would be very important with Abigail. Her skin was pale, fair, and fine. She bruised easily. I needed to take
that into account, make certain I didn’t leave any lasting marks.

Twenty strokes with the leather strap would bruise her if I didn’t properly prepare her backside first. Even with the warm-up,
I would have to walk a fine line, gauging her skin, her reactions, and her emotions. Her emotions . . .

She would cry.

I was going to make her cry. Could I do it?

I had to if our relationship was to progress. If I couldn’t handle the sight of her tears, I had no business keeping her as
a submissive. That was a cold, hard fact of our relationship.

I had Sara call Abigail on Wednesday. The coming weekend, unlike the others, would not start with a meal at the kitchen table.
For one, I doubted my ability to eat with Abigail right before I punished her. Second, having her arrive at eight o’clock
and head straight to my bedroom would set the tone for the night.

I called the local kennel to make arrangements for Apollo to stay overnight. If Jackson and the team made the play-offs, I’d
have to board him the next weekend anyway. It’d be easier on him if he could get a trial run in beforehand. And, I admitted
to myself, I wanted him out of the house.

I stood at the window overlooking the drive on Friday night, waiting for Abigail to arrive. Finally, I heard the sound of
the hired car. I closed my eyes.

You can do this.

You have to do this.

My body tensed as I listened to the car door slam. Was she surprised Apollo didn’t meet her? Did the change in time tip her
off that I knew she’d disobeyed me? Would she look remorseful as she walked into the house?

The doorbell rang.

I opened the door, and she stood there looking confused but not remorseful. Maybe she’d slept in on Monday and gotten eight
hours.

“Abigail,” I said, waving her into the foyer.

She stepped inside and looked around.

“Did you have a good week?” I asked, wanting her to tell me. “You may answer.”

“It was fine.”

Maybe hers had been fine. Mine sure as hell hadn’t been. Mine had been a horribly confusing week as I’d tried to work out
the best way to handle what had happened on Sunday night.

“
Fine?
” I asked, slightly irritated at her response. But maybe, just maybe, she hadn’t broken any rules. I would give her one more
chance before I asked straight out. “I’m not entirely sure
fine
is the appropriate response.”

Confusion clouded her expression.

Yes. It was fine. She hadn’t disobeyed me. The punishment wouldn’t be needed. For the first time in five days, I felt like
I could breathe.

She gasped, and my hopes plummeted.

“Abigail.” I took a deep breath. “Is there something you wish to tell me?”

She looked to the floor. “I got only seven hours of sleep on Sunday night.”

I closed my eyes.

Damn Jackson for dating Felicia.

Damn Abigail for breaking a rule.

Damn me for stating that twenty strokes for a lost hour of sleep was appropriate.

And damn me straight to hell for ever thinking being Abigail’s dominant was a good idea.

But . . .

I had given her the rules, I had written down the punishment, and damn it all, I was her dom.

I straightened my shoulders. “Look at me when you speak.”

“I got only seven hours of sleep on Sunday night,” she said, clearly this time. Abigail was a woman who owned up to her mistakes.

“Seven hours?” I stepped toward her. “Do you think I put together a plan for your well-being because I’m bored and have nothing
better to do? Answer me.” Maybe that was it. Maybe this was all a joke to her. She would never take us seriously if I didn’t
punish her.

“No, Master.”

Apologize for breaking one of my rules.

But she just stood there, flushed and fearful.

“I had plans for this evening, Abigail,” I said. “Things I wanted to show you.” And now the library would have to wait. “Instead
we’ll have to spend the evening in my room, working on your punishment.” I wanted her to know this was not how the weekend
should have gone. Her disobedience changed everything.

Would she apologize?

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Master.”

Yes. Thank you
. That’s what she’d done. She’d disappointed me.

“You’ll be sorrier still when I finish with you. My room. Now.”

I watched as she climbed the stairs and headed to my bedroom. Then I checked myself to make sure I wouldn’t act rashly or
out of anger and gathered myself together. Abigail would be frightened enough—I needed to be in control.

I rolled my sleeves up and headed for the stairs.

She waited, naked, on the whipping bench. The prior weekend, the sight of her bare ass had fueled my fantasies. This weekend
it reminded me that as nice as fantasies were, our relationship had rules and Abigail had broken one. Broken rules led to
consequences.
As the rule maker, I enforced the rules and handed out the consequences.

I ran a hand through my hair. I didn’t have to like it and I didn’t have to enjoy it, but I had to do it.

I went to the bench and gently brushed Abigail’s ass. She jumped.

Nerves.

That made two of us.

“I use three different types of spankings,” I said, wanting to explain my methods. “The first is an erotic spanking. It’s
used to heighten your pleasure, to excite you. The riding crop, for example.” I trailed my fingers over her buttocks to her
warm sex, all the while measuring her bottom, planning how and where to strike when the time came. As bad as tonight would
be, I wanted her to know that spankings could feel good, that I could excite her with a spanking as well as punish her.

My touch grew rougher, and I watched her skin for any change of color. I pinched to see how red her skin would become. I didn’t
know her body well enough yet, and doing this would help me judge how her skin reacted. “The second spanking is for chastisement.
You won’t feel any pleasure. The purpose is to remind you of the consequences of disobedience. I make rules for your well-being,
Abigail. How many hours of sleep are you supposed to get Sunday through Thursday? Answer me.”

“Eight,” she sputtered.

“Yes, eight. Not seven.” Disrespecting my rules meant disrespecting me. “You obviously forgot, so perhaps a sore backside
will help you remember in the future.”

Perhaps we have both forgotten a few things and this will help us both.

“The third spanking is a warm-up spanking. It’s used before a chastisement spanking.” I bent down and picked up the strap
from the floor. “Do you know why I have to use a warm-up spanking?”

Silence.

I put the strap on the bench, right next to her face. She needed to see it.

“Because your ass can’t handle the chastisement spanking first.”

Because you might bruise otherwise.

“Twenty strokes with the leather strap, Abigail.” But I needed to remind her she had an out. She could use her safe word.
Neither of us had to do this. “Unless you have something you’d like to say.”

If she had entered into this arrangement for any other reason than to be my sub, if she wasn’t one hundred percent certain
she wanted to be dominated, I would find out now. She had only to say the word to bring our relationship to an end.

She was silent.

“Very well.” If she could handle it, so could I.

I drew myself up straight and started spanking her. I began softly, making sure my hand landed in a different place each time,
gradually warming the areas I would use the strap on—not too high, focusing more toward her sweet spot, right where her thighs
met her butt.

I could tell when the strokes moved from pleasurable to painful because she started cringing before each one landed. Her ass
turned pink and I started spanking a little harder. After a few minutes, I stopped. I ran my hand over her skin, testing,
feeling the warmth, making sure it was okay to continue. She didn’t flinch at my touch. The skin looked red, but I knew it
could handle what was to come.

I only hoped I could.

I took the strap from beside her. “Count, Abigail.”

I raised my arm and let the strap fly. It landed with a solid thump.

“Ow!”

“What?” I asked, raising my arm again.

“One,” she said quickly. “I meant one.”

I brought my arm down again.

“Shit!” she said, and then corrected herself. “I mean, two.”

“Watch the language,” I said with the third stroke.

“Th-three,” she stuttered.

I moved so the fourth stroke landed on a different patch of skin. I concentrated on her backside, planning ahead to where
the next few would land.

“F-four,” she said, but moved her hand to cover herself right as I brought my arm back for five. I stopped and looked closely
at the red skin before me. She was still fine. She knew better than to move. Damn it. Would she not learn?

I moved to her side and whispered, “Cover yourself again and I’ll tie you up and add an additional ten.” I was tired of her
defiance. It would stop. Today. Now.

I brought the strap down for five, six, and seven. Quick and businesslike. She counted each time.

Eight landed on a new spot.

She started sobbing.

“Ei . . . eight.”

Why had I ever decided twenty strokes was an acceptable punishment? I took a second to run my hand over her skin. Still fine.
Still wasn’t going to bruise.

I did my best to shut my brain down for nine, ten, eleven, and twelve, but I couldn’t. I had to concentrate on her, on her
responses, to make sure I wasn’t being too hard on her. Was she crying out of shock? Was the pain really too much?

“Thir . . . teen.”

I stopped again. Fuck. Seven more.

Should I stop?

Should I use the safe word?

No, not yet. She was fine. I needed to go on.

“Fourteen.”

At fifteen she stopped counting.

“Abigail,” I choked out.

“Sorry.” She gasped for breath. “Fif . . . te . . . en.”

Five more. My concentration was shot to hell. And there before me was Abigail King, the woman I’d longed for and admired for
too damn many years to count.

I made her cry. And I would make her cry more.

Just get through it.

My strokes were lighter now, but I knew she was beyond noticing. Just a tap would hurt her after what I’d already put her
through.

“Oh, God. Sixteen.” She took a ragged breath. “Please.”

I stopped and rested with my hands on either side of her body. I wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Wasn’t sure I could continue.
Wasn’t sure I needed to. Would she finally use her safe word? Is this what would break her? Twenty lashes with a leather strap?

Over a lost hour of sleep?

I stepped back, brought my hand up and back down.

Her body jerked. “Seventeen. Oh, please,” she sobbed. “Better. I’ll do better.”

Just get through it.

Once more I ran my hand over her, judging. Could she handle three more? Maybe. If they were light.

“Eighteen,” she whispered. “I’ll get ten hours.”

Two more, West. Get through it.

“Quit begging.” I couldn’t bear her to beg.

I struck again. Softer than ever.