is definitely going to be one of those times. And, in fact, the sterner I am with you, the wetter you get."
"Noooo!" she wailed, railing against her own nature.
"Yes, Miranda. I can't have you countermanding my orders like that, honey. I won't have it, and if this is what it takes to help you learn that that kind of behavior is no longer an option for you, then I'll do this to you every night if I have to."
Chapter Five
At least it wasn't the nearly three inch wide one he usually wore with his jeans. She supposed that was something. Instead of a well worn, but still rough in some places brown belt, this one was shiny black leather and much stiffer, which she knew would more than make up for its narrowness, since it was only about an inch or an inch and half wide.
He held the buckle against his palm and wrapped the excess length around his hand until there was only about seven or eight inches left – just about right for what he intended to impart to her. Mace stood next to her, staring down at the rear end he was about to set on fire. "Don't get up, Miranda Kiley LaVoie, or I will start again from the beginning." He knew exactly how hard it was going to be for her to do what he'd just asked of her, considering how badly the belt made her dance and scream. But this room was sound proof – something he'd required when he'd renovated it a few years ago – and he knew he didn't have to worry about her frightening any of the hands or his housekeeper, Dolores.
The first stroke was always the worst – until the second came along, and he was viciously accurate with that thing, laying down angry red welts that remained individual for as long as he could manage it, but then, eventually, the majority of her flesh was already mottled – not one square inch remained untouched. So he began the process of decorating her bottom again, over the current shade, achieving a crimson he'd never seen on her before with every wicked stroke.
She had long since stopped being able to scream – somewhere in the middle of the first round of licks. Her mouth remained open and she still continued to jerk up at every connection of that viciously wielded belt to her vulnerable behind, but although she was screaming from her soul, no sound could get past her ruined larynx and out to his ears. Her sobs were silent, too, tears streaming down her face unheeded to drip from her jaw and chin onto the huge dark spot on the cushion directly beneath her. The straps that he had shown her were wrapped so tightly around her wrists – and she had clung to them so desperately as he whipped her – that they were literally cutting off the circulation to her hands, but she didn't care.
At least one part of her was numb.
When he thought he might stop, he added ten more powerful strokes – the hardest he had ever given her – wanting the impression to last, leaving her in a rictus of pain that she adopted at the first of that last set and remained in even after his arm was no longer rising and falling.
Then he simply let the belt fall to the floor where it was and he immediately unwrapped her hands, noting that they had taken on a bluish cast. He rubbed them briskly, then on up her arms, putting them down along her sides to recover. As soon as he touched her to comfort her, the body that she had been holding so tense while she was punished collapsed down onto the couch, as if she hadn't the strength to support it any longer.
Miranda wanted to move, but she wasn't at all sure she could, and she thought that it might just behoove her to let him do with her what he would. She couldn't believe she was thinking that – and she would never tell him – but he appeared to be depressingly right; his sternness appeared to be getting through her stubbornness. So she simply lay there, sobbing silently as he stood at the end of the couch, admiring his handiwork, then she heard him sliding down his zipper, and seconds later, she found herself completely full of
"Noooo!" she wailed, railing against her own nature.
"Yes, Miranda. I can't have you countermanding my orders like that, honey. I won't have it, and if this is what it takes to help you learn that that kind of behavior is no longer an option for you, then I'll do this to you every night if I have to."
Chapter Five
At least it wasn't the nearly three inch wide one he usually wore with his jeans. She supposed that was something. Instead of a well worn, but still rough in some places brown belt, this one was shiny black leather and much stiffer, which she knew would more than make up for its narrowness, since it was only about an inch or an inch and half wide.
He held the buckle against his palm and wrapped the excess length around his hand until there was only about seven or eight inches left – just about right for what he intended to impart to her. Mace stood next to her, staring down at the rear end he was about to set on fire. "Don't get up, Miranda Kiley LaVoie, or I will start again from the beginning." He knew exactly how hard it was going to be for her to do what he'd just asked of her, considering how badly the belt made her dance and scream. But this room was sound proof – something he'd required when he'd renovated it a few years ago – and he knew he didn't have to worry about her frightening any of the hands or his housekeeper, Dolores.
The first stroke was always the worst – until the second came along, and he was viciously accurate with that thing, laying down angry red welts that remained individual for as long as he could manage it, but then, eventually, the majority of her flesh was already mottled – not one square inch remained untouched. So he began the process of decorating her bottom again, over the current shade, achieving a crimson he'd never seen on her before with every wicked stroke.
She had long since stopped being able to scream – somewhere in the middle of the first round of licks. Her mouth remained open and she still continued to jerk up at every connection of that viciously wielded belt to her vulnerable behind, but although she was screaming from her soul, no sound could get past her ruined larynx and out to his ears. Her sobs were silent, too, tears streaming down her face unheeded to drip from her jaw and chin onto the huge dark spot on the cushion directly beneath her. The straps that he had shown her were wrapped so tightly around her wrists – and she had clung to them so desperately as he whipped her – that they were literally cutting off the circulation to her hands, but she didn't care.
At least one part of her was numb.
When he thought he might stop, he added ten more powerful strokes – the hardest he had ever given her – wanting the impression to last, leaving her in a rictus of pain that she adopted at the first of that last set and remained in even after his arm was no longer rising and falling.
Then he simply let the belt fall to the floor where it was and he immediately unwrapped her hands, noting that they had taken on a bluish cast. He rubbed them briskly, then on up her arms, putting them down along her sides to recover. As soon as he touched her to comfort her, the body that she had been holding so tense while she was punished collapsed down onto the couch, as if she hadn't the strength to support it any longer.
Miranda wanted to move, but she wasn't at all sure she could, and she thought that it might just behoove her to let him do with her what he would. She couldn't believe she was thinking that – and she would never tell him – but he appeared to be depressingly right; his sternness appeared to be getting through her stubbornness. So she simply lay there, sobbing silently as he stood at the end of the couch, admiring his handiwork, then she heard him sliding down his zipper, and seconds later, she found herself completely full of
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