by Liz Meldon
“Thankyouthankyouthankyousir—oh god, thank you!”
“My Belle,” he murmured in response, holding me tighter, taking me harder, until finally he stilled, his body tense, groaning as his shaft pulsed inside me.
And while I might have been delirious, trapped in a post-orgasm haze, maybe even subspace, I could have sworn I heard him hiss: mine.
Just the idea had me shuddering.
My head popped back up as soon as he released my hair, and I drooped forward, both hands on the mirror again, my arms trembling. Still buried inside me, Dean stroked my hair, smoothing it down my back. Something felt different this time around. The sex, the way we held each other—the way he gently kissed and nibbled my shoulder, resting on me just as much as I relied on his arm around my waist to keep me up.
We hadn’t planned this. Nowhere in either of our dossiers would you find quick, rough screwing over the bathroom sink, Belle covered in paint. It had just happened. Naturally. Organically. Dean telling me, commanding me, to climax had made this one the best yet. I could still feel it; from my lightheaded giddiness to my tingling toes, it clung on fiercely, refusing to let up. Each slight movement we made had heat crackling inside me, and if exhaustion hadn’t struck like a freight train, I could have stayed like that forever.
Or, until he was ready to go again.
This—scene—it did feel different. Better.
Right.
As if this was what we would do without a detailed outline at the back of our minds.
I gulped at the thought. Farewell forever, professional distance.
When Dean stirred behind me, straightening, I turned over my shoulder to smile at him, fingers grazing his stubble. He grinned back, softly, sleepily, like we had just woken up from the best nap ever, and before I could stop myself, I caught his lips in a gentle kiss. Neither of our eyes fluttered completely closed, preferring instead to watch each other as our mouths met for just a beat too long.
Somehow, that extra beat didn’t scare me like it would have a few days ago.
And that should have terrified me.
I parted my lips instead at his prompting, sighing when his tongue grazed mine before retreating.
“Thank you, sir,” I whispered, our foreheads resting together. Dean’s arm had moved from my waist, stretching across my chest, between my breasts, so he could hold my shoulder. Safe, secure, I no longer propped myself up on the mirror, relying on him instead.
“For what, Belle?” He grinned. “For letting you come?”
My cheeks darkened, and I wasn’t sure who initiated the next kiss—him or me.
“Well, yes, that,” I mumbled against his lips, easing away just enough so I could get the rest of the words out—so I didn’t get lost in him. “But, thank you for seeing me.”
Dean set his forehead against mine, brow furrowing—likely at the wobble in my voice. I swallowed down the emotion and stole another quick peck instead, knowing I didn’t need to say more than that. He caught my chin just as I nipped at his lower lip and held me there.
“I see you, Belle.”
My heart beat just a touch faster. “I see you too, sir.”
Because if I had to paint him, I knew two things for certain. One: I would do a terrible job, because art wasn’t exactly my forte. And two: I would paint the colours of his soul, the colours that I saw shimmering beyond the surface. Not all the white of his house, the grey of his jet, the accents of black and gold. Honestly, I would have used most of the same colours he used on me, oddly enough, excluding the pink.
Well, maybe just a dab of pink. Right over his heart. For me.
For the way he saw me.
“Shall we get you cleaned up?”
I pressed my lips together. I didn’t want to move—to break apart and shatter the moment. It was slipping away from me faster than I would have liked.
But I let it go, because we couldn’t spend all day here, like this.
Right?
So, I nodded. My heart still beat faster when he kissed my cheek, but there was a sudden emptiness, loneliness, when he eased out of me and stepped away. In his absence, I studied his creation in the mirror, burning the stunning details into my brain. Behind me, Dean saw to the rainfall shower, the sudden burst of water pummeling the tile floor, steaming the glass walls.
I only turned away from the mirror, from his smeared and cracked masterpiece, when he called my name. Arms wrapped around myself, I padded across the spacious ensuite bathroom, each step heavy as physical, emotional exhaustion weighed me down.
But some of it lifted when I settled into his arms. With my back to his chest, Dean held me, and I reclined against his shoulder as the shower rinsed the first coat of paint from my skin. Purple, blue, green, black, red, orange, yellow—pink. They all swirled around the drain, around our feet.
I leaned into Dean as he pressed his lips to my temple, water rushing down my body, and closed my eyes.
Exhausted but satisfied.
Sore—but safe.
House Rule #11
Belle will be a good girl, or expect punishment for bratty behaviour.
3
Belle
Friday, March 8th
Sometimes I forgot how boring taskwork could be—especially when Dean wasn’t watching.
Actually, most of the morning taskwork he assigned was boring, but I still enjoyed it for several reasons.
One: there was a sense of pride in accomplishing a task set out by my Dom.
Two: I liked proving to myself that whatever Dean asked of me, I could do, because I was growing into a good submissive.
And three: the look in Dean’s eyes as he watched me work—it made my heart race and my panties damp. Metaphorically. Because I usually did taskwork naked.
Today, however, I wasn’t naked—and Dean wasn’t watching me. Not that I could see him, but Dean had the type of gaze, the type of focus, that I could feel. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, made me work harder. I hadn’t felt it once today, and I wanted to stomp my foot and pout, honestly. Like a child. Like a bratty, pouty, petulant child who wasn’t getting the attention she craved.
At some point I’d wondered if that was part of the game, but then I would hear him sigh at his desk, the huff followed by heavy keystrokes or a rapidly tapping pen.
I had been at this for a half hour. Laced into a frilly pink corset, white stockings up to my mid-thighs, connected to a baby-pink garter that belted around my cinched waist. Dean had called me a treat when I arrived in the office. He had even fastened the corset a hint tighter to make me squirm.
Then he had put me in the corner, slightly bent at the waist, back arched so my bare butt was on full display, hands behind my back—not tied, mind you—and balanced a quarter on my nose.
“Do not drop the quarter,” he’d whispered gruffly in my ear.
“Yes, sir,” I’d murmured back, instantly aroused, instantly excited for this new task.
That had been ages ago. Since then, he hadn’t checked on me. His bare feet had stridden confidently across the tile, straight to his desk. I’d heard the plop of his body into that high-backed leather chair, the soft whirr of the desktop. Then—nothing. No, how are you doing, Belle? No, did you drop the coin yet, Belle? No, is my submissive being a good girl? Not even an are you wet yet, Belle?
Dean always chatted with me during taskwork. Sure, he had actual work to do on the computer as well, but I never felt like I’d been forgotten.
And after reconnecting in my bathroom, covered in paint, and resuming our previous dynamic with gusto—I didn’t want to be forgotten.
It turned me into a brat.
And I wasn’t a brat. I was a good girl.
Across the room, Dean sighed again, and I slowly shifted my weight between each leg. The movement alleviated some of the stiffness, but I’d also hoped maybe he would notice—maybe my bare ass would ensnare him.
Nothing. I pursed my lips, going cross-eyed for a moment to look down at t
he shiny silver quarter balancing on my nose. There hadn’t been a single close call so far; I could probably stand there for the next hour and not drop it.
But that would mean another hour of being forgotten, maybe even ignored.
Beyond that, something had been bothering Dean this week. Now that we had moved on from the incident, I’d hoped we could fully resume our relationship, and for the most part, we had. Dean was present during playtime. He was my Dom, the same Dom who cooked all my meals and reminded me to reapply sunscreen, but in our free time, something was distracting him. He was on his laptop more often, checking emails more frequently. I had seen him send calls to voicemail, his eyes stormy—and not the fun kind of stormy I enjoyed. The bitter, sharp storm of anger, frustration.
While he had invited me into his world, shown me a glimpse of himself no one was fortunate enough to see anymore, I still wasn’t sure if I had the right to ask him what was wrong. Anything happening in an email was real-world business—and I, Belle Bennet, his escort, was for fantasy. Could I cross that line so soon after the incident?
Dean tried to hide his moods. If he caught me watching him mid-storm, up went a somewhat forced smile, followed by a game or a treat from the kitchen—a distraction, as if whatever was bothering him didn’t exist.
I didn’t mind being his distraction for now, but I hated seeing him so upset, so visibly bothered by whatever was in those emails. It hurt me. His distress hurt my heart.
So, if I couldn’t outright ask—then I would distract. Two could play at this game, sir.
Still balancing that damn quarter on my nose, my face shoved in the corner of the office, I fought back a smile as an idea sparked to mind. It’d be fun. Probably a bit painful. Hopefully he would see the cheek behind it—and not take it too seriously.
So, I dropped the quarter.
On purpose.
The coin clattered and spun on the tile for a moment, round and round, until it flopped flat on its side. Behind me, Dean’s forceful assault on his keyboard stopped. Silence. With a deep breath, I peeked over my shoulder and found him leaning around his dual monitor setup, frowning. My adrenaline spiked.
“Belle.” He nodded down at the quarter. “Pick that up.”
Taking my time, I doubled over, bending at the waist to show off—everything. Once I had the quarter, I straightened just as slowly and faced him with what I hoped was a seductive little smirk. Whether it was or it wasn’t, Dean’s face gave nothing away.
“Now, put that back,” his eyes narrowed somewhat, “and get in the corner.”
I bit my lip for a moment, knowing my smile read more naughty than seductive, and held up the quarter. “Heads I do it. Tails I don’t.”
Dean rolled his chair to the side of his desk. “What did you just say?”
You heard me, sir. I didn’t dare say those words, of course—I wasn’t that brave. Instead, I balanced the coin on my finger, then flicked it up with my thumb. It shot higher than I intended courtesy of my nerves, but I still managed to catch it and slam it down on the top of my other hand.
Heads.
“Oh, sorry, sir…” I pursed my lips at him and shrugged. “Tails.”
My Dom stood—slowly, just as I’d done when I bent over, only he did it to terrorize, not arouse. Little did he know, the movement provoked both in me: fear and desire. He looked so powerful behind that desk, looming over it, fingertips just pressed to the surface.
“If you don’t get back in that corner,” Dean growled, pointing at me, “your tail is going to be in serious trouble.”
I shivered. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. If Dean had been in a bad mood already, maybe misbehaving wasn’t the way to distract him.
But, heck, I was committed. No going back now.
“Belle.” His voice cracked across the room, sharp as a whip and twice as deadly. “Get. In. That. Corner. Now.”
I cocked my head to the side, holding up the quarter again. “But I flipped for it—”
“There is no bargaining in taskwork!”
Heat flashed in my belly as he stormed around the desk, and I scampered off with a giggle, racing for the door as fast as my stockinged feet could carry me. I skipped at first, not taking it seriously as I headed down the bright, airy corridor, past my room, toward the outdoor lounge overlooking the pool. From there, a spiral staircase would take me downstairs—one I’d never dared use before, but that also hadn’t seemed so terrifying since the day I’d hung out the window.
Only I didn’t make it that far.
Dean’s footsteps thundered after me, bare feet pounding the tile now, and when I glanced over my shoulder, flicking my curls as I did, I found him charging me like a snorting bull. I yelped and ran this time, fear slicing through the heat pooling in my core. Seconds later, his arm snapped around my waist like some steel vaudeville hook. I lurched forward, going nowhere, trapped, my rigid corset keeping me from folding over, and then squealed when he hoisted me up and carried me into his bedroom.
A bedroom that wasn’t much different from mine. The colour scheme matched the rest of the house. A king-sized bed instead of a queen. Two dressers instead of one, a writing desk under a window that overlooked jungle, not a garden tailored to his submissive. A closet full of clothes and shoes, not intricate lingerie and flimsy swimsuit cover-ups.
Dean tossed me on the bed, and I bounced off my hands and knees, rolling onto my back, suddenly plagued with a horribly-timed case of the giggles. With both hands clapped over my mouth, I tried to smother the sound—to hide the smile, especially when Dean looked like he did.
So serious.
So…
So Dom-Dean.
So punishment Dom-Dean.
Jaw clenched. Mouth set in a thin line. Brow slightly furrowed and gaze hard. Why did that look make me wet? It shouldn’t. It should make me anxious. It should send me squirming to the other side of the bed, full of apologies and tears.
Instead—I giggled.
Dean climbed onto the bed, straddling me, blanketing me with his hard body as he snatched my wrists and yanked them away from my face, then slammed his lips to mine. His kiss stoked the wildfire scorching inside me, the kind of kiss that both stole my breath away and breathed life back into me. Firm, rough, ravishing, yet torturously brief—over too soon. I whimpered, pushing up onto my elbows to trail after him.
He said nothing as he climbed off and rolled me over, pinning me roughly to the bed.
“Sir—” I yelped when he spanked me, hard, one smack for each cheek. He had promised my tail would be in serious trouble, and as he clambered back on top, straddling my lower back, I realized that I probably should have taken that threat more seriously. I squirmed, hopelessly trapped beneath him, his thighs clenched firmly on either side. My corset’s tightness paired with his weight had me gasping for air, and Dean lifted himself up to alleviate some of the pressure. Hands fisted in the duvet, I sucked in a full breath, the frilly pink corset, deceptively innocent, refusing to let my ribcage expand as much as I needed it to. Dean sat up further, allowing me more give, before hellfire rained down on my poor bare ass.
The blows were relentless, one right after the other, over and over again without rest as I squirmed and squealed beneath him. My skin was on fire some ten seconds in, and Dean hadn’t even told me to count—he was spanking too fast, too hard, for me to keep track.
This—may have been an incredibly stupid idea.
My legs folded, though I knew it was pointless to try and shield myself. He soon had them flat on the bed again, one hand capturing both ankles as the other continued its unholy assault. Tears blurred my vision, falling thickly when I blinked, and I fisted the bedcover harder, wailing.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Sir—I didn’t mean to—ahhouch!”
Dean gave me nothing but his firm palm, landing each smack so that it hurt. My apologies morphed into high-pitched squeals and incoherent cries, the punishment dragging on for an eternity.
He ended it with a
sharp full-handed slap to each cheek, and by then I was just tears and strangled breaths, sobbing into his bed. Rather than climb off me right away, Dean waited, sitting up completely so that his weight was gone, but his thighs remained clamped around my hips. I whimpered when he smoothed the backs of his knuckles over my traumatized skin, and batted watery lashes when he blew on each cheek, at a distance, the air cool and very much welcome.
Soon, my pulse stopped thundering between my ears. My mind cleared. My ass burned, but it was nothing compared to the sharp, throbbing ache of the paddle. I could handle a spanking. Dean had never given me one this intense before, but as I propped myself up on my elbows, I decided I could take it—that this was survivable.
That even after it, I still wanted him. That if he palmed me, he would find me wet.
As he climbed off and kneeled beside me, I ignored the cruel little voice at the back of my mind asking what on earth was wrong with me. I focused on the thought of Dean taking me, brutally, right this second, pounding me into the mattress while I sobbed and thanked him for letting me come—twice, probably. The heat surged again, and after he gently rolled me onto my back, my hands went straight for his shorts, for the bulge that had been pressed into my lower back.
“Belle.” Dean caught me just as I popped open the button, and, with an exasperated sigh, swiftly trapped my wrists to either side of my head. “What has gotten into you today? You aren’t usually a bad girl.”
While there was a hard edge to his voice, it wasn’t as steely as I deserved. My mouth fell open—but I had nothing to say. I wasn’t normally a bad girl. I liked being a good girl for him. I lived for his praise during playtime. Amidst all that wildfire and heat, an ice-cold kernel of guilt made itself at home. I swallowed hard, unable to meet his eye.
“I…”
“Tell me,” he demanded. “Right now.”
His tone brokered no room for argument, and I couldn’t have mustered one if I tried. I couldn’t have lied if I tried. There was no fight left in me—because I wasn’t bad.
