by Ashe Barker
Adrenalin surged through Jodie’s blood as she made her way over to the competitors’ area to wait for her first match. Her stomach churned and her legs were shaky. She was more nervous than usual—there was so much riding on this. Willing herself to calm down, she took a few deep breaths and reminded herself that this was what she was good at.
It was no surprise that she sailed through to the semi-finals. One of her matches had actually ended early when she had gained a twelve-point lead over her opponent, which meant she had automatically won. She was on fire and nothing was going to stop her.
As everyone had predicted, Tanya also made it through to the semis, but now they were both up against two of the girls from the Olympic team. They were formidable fighters and appeared confident and ready to take down anyone in their way. Tanya was to fight the current champion who was in the same weight category as them while Jodie would tackle last’s year’s winner. This was getting serious. Jodie swallowed her nerves as she glanced up at Dylan. Filled with love, confidence, and pride, his smile lit the dynamite in her belly. She would do this for him as well as for herself. She would prove to everyone that she deserved that place on the Olympic team. She had to do this.
Jodie won her match in the semi-final by a whisker. The veteran she had been up against was in a different league than anyone she had ever fought and she had had to resort to a spinning back kick to get her through to the finals. But she’d done it. Tanya hadn’t, though. She hadn’t really stood a chance against the current UK number one, but she had apparently put up a brave fight and had only lost by six points.
Now it was Jodie’s turn to face the seemingly unstoppable champion. Caroline Lloyd had taken the world of taekwondo by storm and was tipped for a gold medal at the Tokyo games. Not if I can help it. Jodie glared at her opponent, willing herself to outsmart the powerful woman who was now the only thing that stood in her way.
Within twenty seconds of the first round of the final, it became clear that Caroline had the same fighting spirit that Jodie had. She blocked Jodie’s perfectly executed kicks aimed at her head and landed equally powerful ones back at Jodie. Caroline won the first round, but only by two points.
By the second round, Jodie had gotten the measure of her rival. She executed a skilful spinning kick and adapted her attacks depending on Caroline’s stance, leaving her opponent on the back foot. But Caroline quickly recovered and fought back with her own series of kicks that would have taken anyone else down. But Jodie was one step ahead and blocked nearly every one before making her counterattack. Jodie won the round by five points. She was now three points ahead, but that could all change.
The atmosphere in the arena was electric as the two girls faced each other for the final round. The technique Dylan had spent so long pounding into her, her natural speed and powerful body all came together in a faultless performance. She mixed her assaults with both direct and indirect attacks to catch Caroline off guard. Tactics was one of her strengths and she used it together with her lightning reflexes and sharp judgement to win point after point. Caroline fought back, though and quickly made up for her momentary lapse. But that just fired Jodie’s determination as her foot repeatedly made contact with Caroline’s head guard. The two-minute round seemed to go on forever as Jodie threw everything she had into the match. And then it was over. Exhausted and dripping in sweat, Jodie stared at the scoreboard as the crowd went mad. Her brain was scrambled, the numbers blurred as she tried to make sense of it all. Then she looked at Dylan. He was on his feet, clapping and cheering, his face alight with victory.
“Well done.” Caroline held out her hand and smiled in good sportsmanship. “You’re one hell of a fighter. You’re clearly one to watch.”
In a daze, Jodie took Caroline’s hand and shook it. “Thank you.”
And then it hit her. Oh, my God, I’ve won! Another look at the scores made it real. She had won by four points. In any match that would be good, if not a little close, but in the national finals, fighting against the best in the country, she knew that was incredible.
Tanya ran up and threw her arms around her. “I can’t believe you just beat Caroline Lloyd. You’re the national champion, Jodie.”
Suddenly, people were gathering around her, congratulating her, slapping her on her back. Then Dylan appeared and she jumped into his arms, tears streaming down her face. She’d done it. She’d won.
“Jodie!” She looked up to see her parents pushing through the crowd, their faces beaming with pride. Her mother hugged her tightly and refused to let go when Jodie tried to pull away. Laughing, Jodie pretended to catch her breath.
“Mum, you’re squeezing me too tight.”
Finally her mum let go, only for her dad to do the same. They’d never been the types for public displays of affection, so this felt quite strange.
“We’re so proud of you, sweetheart,” her mother gushed. “We’ll be right there in Tokyo to cheer you on.”
“Mum, I haven’t been selected yet,” said Jodie with a laugh.
“Oh, they’ll be crazy if they don’t pick you.” She turned to Dylan and took his hand. “It’s nice to see you again, Dylan. Thank you for everything you’ve done for our daughter.”
“It’s been an absolute pleasure, Mrs. Price.” He winked at Jodie. “I’ll make sure I keep cracking that whip until she gets to Tokyo.”
“Good man,” said her dad, nodding in agreement.
Jodie flushed and hoped her dad didn’t catch the hidden implication in Dylan’s words. “Are you staying over?” she asked her mum.
“No, dear. Your father is playing golf in the morning so we’re going to head off shortly.” Her mother sniffed as if she was close to tears then hugged Jodie again. “Well done, sweetheart. We knew you’d do it.”
When her parents had gone, Jodie grinned at Dylan. “Cracking that whip?”
Dylan took a handful of her hair and held her head in place while he leaned in and whispered in her ear, “Oh, yes, Jodie. Don’t forget, you’ve built up quite an impressive list of transgressions that need punishing. You’ll be feeling that whip before you know it.”
* * *
Jodie opened her eyes as Dylan pulled into his driveway the following day. She had slept for nearly the whole journey. The celebrations in the hotel had gone on until after midnight and when they’d been kicked out, they’d invited Tanya, Mrs. Monroe, and Martha back to their room to party on. Some of their fellow competitors had then knocked on their door and before they knew it, a party was in full swing that had gone on until the early hours.
Dylan smiled as Jodie rubbed her eyes. “Hello, sleepyhead.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to snooze all the way.”
“Don’t worry, you won’t be getting much sleep tonight so it’s just as well you’re rested.” His voice held a dark promise that made Jodie’s stomach flip with both apprehension and excitement.
Upstairs, Jodie freshened up in the bathroom while Dylan put the kettle on. When she padded barefooted into his kitchen, there was a mug of tea waiting for her. Dylan had his laptop open. Whatever he was reading must have been amusing because a big grin was stretched across his face.
“Thanks for the tea,” she said and picked up one of the mugs.
“Come and look at this.” Dylan motioned for her to take a look at the screen.
When she saw what he was referring to, her breath hitched. “Oh, my God,” she exclaimed. “You were right. He did it.”
Dylan grinned. “We did it. It’s over, Jodie. That man will never bother you again.”
Tears blurred her eyes as she reread the headline on the news page.
Top Bank Boss in Shock Resignation. Mr. George Hartwell, CEO of the investment and securities banking group, Bishop HLS, today announced that he was resigning with immediate effect. A spokesperson said that Mr. Hartwell was planning to move back to the USA to pursue new interests. No other reason was given, but the deputy chairman, Mrs. Joan Sywell, has issued a statement saying that all busi
ness will continue unchanged. Mr. Hartwell’s expertise in derivatives has made large profits for the bank in recent months…
Jodie looked up at Dylan, grinning so much that her face ached. “He’s really gone.”
Dylan nodded. “Read on.”
Jodie skimmed the lengthy and boring bit about Hartwell’s biography, but then something in the final paragraph caught her eye.
Mr. Hartwell’s final legacy to the bank has been the signing of national taekwondo champion, Jodie Price. As her official sponsor, the bank is hopeful that she will be selected for the GB Olympic team in the coming days. “We are very proud of Miss Price’s achievements,” said the spokesperson. “Despite Mr. Hartwell’s departure, we will continue to support Miss Price for the duration of her contract with Bishop HLS.”
“Oh, my God, I’m in the bloody news.”
Dylan closed the laptop then pulled her into his arms. “There’s no stopping you now.” He gave her a hard and demanding kiss then led her across the room and pointed to the floor. “But, in the meantime, we have some unfinished business to attend to.” He cupped her chin in his palm and glared down at her. “You have thirty seconds to strip naked then get on your knees, head lowered, hands behind your back.”
Jodie’s stomach lurched at the serious tone of Dylan’s voice. He was in dom mode and he meant business.
“Now, Jodie. You’ve already wasted five seconds. For every second you’re late, you will get an extra swat.”
* * *
“I promised you a whipping.” Dylan paced the floor behind Jodie, scrutinising her from every angle. “That would probably count as a reward though, not a punishment. And there isn’t really enough space here to do justice to it. I know a place we can try it out, though.”
“Club Sin?” she whispered, still not raising her gaze from the floor.
“Yes. Soon. For now, though, I think we need to do a bit of a tally up.”
Now she did sneak a glance over her shoulder at him. He merely hitched his hip on the edge of the worktop, raised one eyebrow, and she immediately resumed her previous submissive pose.
“Lying to me. Repeatedly. More times than I can actually count. You carried on for weeks saying that you were okay, that you were having an off day. I asked you again and again what the problem was, but you refused to tell me. And all that time you were unhappy, suffering because of what Hartwell was doing. You weren’t honest with me, which is unacceptable, but in doing that you hurt yourself, which compounds the matter.”
“I’m sorry, Sir.”
“I know that, but being sorry doesn’t get you out of your punishment, does it?”
“No, Sir. I just wanted to tell you, that’s all.”
“Okay. And then there were all the times you snapped at me, or at other people. There was that nonsense in the dojang over the bottle of water…”
“God, I was such an idiot. I did apologise to Tanya though.”
“Your punishment would be a lot worse if you hadn’t.”
Jodie cringed, but sensibly remained silent.
“And on top of all of that, you actually did what that bastard told you to do. You let our sport down, but more to the point you let me down. Worst of all, you let yourself down and that’s completely unacceptable.”
“I know. I wish…” Her voice wavered, she was on the verge of tears, but he knew her well enough to recognise bitter contrition rather than fear of what was to happen next.
“I’m thinking the cane. I know you hate that. The only question is, how many strokes? What do you think, Jodie? How many strokes have you earned with your behaviour?”
“I…I’m not sure. You decide, please, Master.”
It was a good answer, but Dylan wasn’t quite satisfied. On this occasion he wanted her to assess the depth of her culpability and come up with a number.
“I’m asking you. How many, Jodie?”
He well understood her dilemma. She must be tempted to name a lower tariff because the cane fucking well hurt. Some subs got off on the intensity, but not Jodie. She was going to hate this. But aiming low wouldn’t be honest, and that was what had landed her in this situation to start with. He waited, patient, while she thought it through.
“I… I think, perhaps… twenty, Master?”
Jesus, she must be fucking sorry. He wouldn’t have gone above ten.
“I was thinking maybe half that, but if you think it merits twenty…” He smiled at her stricken expression. “Okay, perhaps not. Shall we split the difference and settle on fifteen?”
“Th-thank you, Sir.”
“Fifteen strokes with my belt, or, if you accept the cane, we’ll reduce that to ten. Your choice, Jodie.”
“Really? Just ten?”
“Just ten. But don’t be thinking I’ll go easy on you. I’m going to make you dance about a bit, and we’ll be staying in here where the floor’s tiled because I wouldn’t be surprised if you peed yourself.”
“Oh, God…”
“Just Sir will do fine, Jodie. Or if all of that sounds too much you can always go for the belt instead.”
She hesitated. He wasn’t surprised. This was an important decision. Then she gave a small nod of her head. “Ten strokes with the cane, Sir. Thank you.”
“Right. The cane it is, then. You can stand up now and lean on the table. I want your feet about eighteen inches apart and your back arched. Present that bottom for me.”
He watched as she got in position. Jodie braced her hands on the clean table top and bent at the waist.
“Bend over further. On your elbows.”
She lowered her upper body and he mentally assessed the angle and height of her exposed and vulnerable buttocks. Yes, that looked to be about right.
“Okay. Hold that position while I go and select which cane to use.”
He already knew which of his toys would be his weapon of choice for today. He went straight for a black leather plaited cane, about thirty inches long, light, supple, and thin enough to deliver just the sort of deep and meaningful sting he was going for. Jodie would carry his marks for days, maybe a week or so. It would be at least the day after tomorrow before she could sit in anything resembling comfort.
He stroked the toy from handle to tip, then swung it hard through the air. The satisfying whistle resounded through his apartment. He was sure Jodie would have heard.
Sure enough, when he returned to the kitchen, the cane swinging from his right hand, she was quivering. She hadn’t broken her stance, though.
Good girl.
“I want you to count the strokes. Thank me after each one and ask me nicely for the next.”
“But, Master… please…”
“Count, Jodie. And don’t forget your manners or we start over.”
He knew why she protested. He expected to have to help her with the arithmetic. But the counting and thanking forced the sub to stay in the moment, to concentrate on what was happening rather than drift contentedly off into subspace. Jodie would experience every single one of these strokes in all their agonising glory.
“Are you ready?”
There would be no gentle warmup.
She managed a nod.
“Words, Jodie. Speak to me.” His tone was curt, demanding. The occasion warranted sternness and Jodie would respond better to that than to a gentler approach.
“Yes, Master. I’m ready.”
“Good. Then you may ask me to begin.”
“Please, Master, will you start. I… I’m ready for the first stroke.”
Of course, she wasn’t. No sub in her position ever was, at least not in Dylan’s experience. He’d already selected his spot and as soon as she uttered the words he wasted no time in lifting the cane and bringing it down hard across both her buttocks.
Jodie screamed and danced from one foot to the other. Dylan waited the several seconds it took her to absorb the pain and settle down again. He was about to prompt her when she managed to mutter, “Thank you, Sir. Please, may I have the next one?”<
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Dylan obliged, this time choosing a spot about two inches above the first stripe, which was blooming beautifully. Part of the trick in a good caning was not to crisscross the strokes because there was a greater danger of breaking the skin at the points where the stripes intersected. Broken skin often meant scarring, and he would never risk permanently marking a submissive.
Jodie screeched again and hopped about. It took her longer to settle, and when she did she was still shaking. Still, she managed a pretty enough “Thank you” and asked for her next stroke.
“How many, Jodie? What number was that one?”
“Two, Sir. Sorry.”
“That’s okay but you need to concentrate.”
She whimpered, and he thought she muttered something under her breath. He let that go, but only this once. Insubordination would not be tolerated.
The next two strokes followed much the same pattern of shrieking, dancing, breathy thanking, and requesting more. Jodie was impressively accurate with her counting.
Until the fifth stroke. She let out her usual high-pitched wail and slumped forward to sag against the table.
“Do you need a break?” he asked. Her entire bottom was glowing with crimson stripes and he knew she must be really hurting now.
Jodie shook her head. “I’m fine, thank you, Sir.”
Dylan was not convinced and went to the fridge for a small bottle of water. He snapped the top and held it against her lips.
“Drink,” he instructed.
She managed to grasp the bottle and tilted her head back. Between sobs, she downed about a third of the water then handed it back to him.
“Are you sure you’ve had enough?”
“Yes, Sir,” she croaked. “I… I don’t want to pee on your floor.”
She was taking her punishment really well and Dylan didn’t think it was going to come to that. You could never be sure, though. He screwed the cap back on and left the bottle close by.
“What number are we on now, Jodie?”
“S-six, Sir. I think.”
