"The kind of person who begs people to scar her to make amends," Alan countered softly.
Tavy laughed, high-pitched and frustrated. "What do a few scars matter if I deserve it?"
Irritation flashed across his features. "Quit, then."
She laughed again. "I can't."
"There are other jobs."
"He's my father! He needs me!"
Irritation flashed across Alan's features and he caught her chin again, but this time she twisted free, falling off her knees and flat on her butt, just out of his reach.
"Why won't you see what I really am?" she cried, slapping his hand away.
He came up off the couch after her. "I could ask you the same damn thing." He closed his hand on her throat and, even though his grip never tightened beyond her ability to breathe around, he refused to be shrugged, slapped, or pried away. "Up," he said tersely.
Clutching his arm with both hands, feeling nothing but taut muscle and veined lines and all the shame snaking inside her, Tavy climbed awkwardly to her feet. He marched her around the sofa to an easily overlooked door just beyond the fireplace. It was a strikingly modern bathroom that he pushed her into, with a shower big enough for three, a red glass sink on a jet black pedestal, and one entire wall that was nothing but mirrored panels from floor to ceiling.
It took some wrestling before he could get her to stand before it. He stripped his vest off her, baring her completely. She couldn't stand to look at herself, but his hand never left her throat, and when he stepped up behind her and gripped her collar, there was no turning away.
"Look," he ordered. "Look at what you've done to yourself."
He touched her breast. His dark fingers were a stark contrast to the paleness of her flesh and, in particular, to the scarred whiteness of the cell-popped words 'slut' and 'mine' still visible there. His hand dropped to her belly, forcing her gaze to follow as he traced the wrap lines a past whip had left behind. Dozens more lined her back. Cut lines laddered her legs. Needle punctures dotted her labia. She was the submissive who never said no, and she couldn't count the number of men who had taken advantage of that.
"Look at what you've done," Alan repeated, softer now, his hands gentling upon her. His fingers wandered along her curves in tender caresses. "All this pain… for nothing, because none of it helped, did it?"
His reflection in the mirror blurred.
"No, it didn't," she said thickly, unable to see him beyond her tears.
"Do you know why?" His gaze in the mirror left hers only when she twisted partway around to look up at him. "Because without accountability, punishment is only torture, not discipline. All of this…" he gestured to her accumulative scars, "this was just pain without meaning. And you knew that. You knew it in here." He tapped her chest just above her heart with two blunt fingers.
"I've held myself accountable for each and every call," she argued, but he silenced that with a hard, "No, you haven't. Because nothing changes if you keep going back."
"It's my father. I have to go back." The sheer helplessness that swept through her then was overwhelming.
"Do you really think your father wants you to be this unhappy over anything, much less a business he created?"
She couldn't look at him. "He doesn't know."
"You throw up in the bathroom every single day. Trust me, sweetheart, he knows. And I'll bet that, when he discovers why, he'll be appalled."
She shook her head. "He'll never know."
"Yes he will."
She shook her head again, but the refusal she was struggling to summon died unspoken when he shifted his grip from her throat to her lower jaw, and physically turned her face back to the mirror.
"Say goodbye to that sick, ugly feeling inside of you, Tavy," Alan said, forcing her once more to look at nothing but herself. "You've held onto it long enough. It's time to let it go."
Now it wasn't just helpless that she felt. Overwhelming despair rose up to match it. "How?" she begged.
"You are no longer responsible for your own accountability. That's my job now. Trust me to give you what you need—not what you want, but what you need—to make that feeling go away. Can you do that?"
Tavy stared at his reflection, the black of his eyes holding her every bit as imprisoned as his hand upon her jaw. Her bottom still burned from the angry slaps he'd already punished her with, from the cane strokes earlier that morning, from four years' worth of trying and failing to make it go away. She began to shake, for the first time in a very long time afraid, truly afraid, of how much more severe it would need to be for him to accomplish what he was promising. Her knees tried to buckle, but still she nodded.
"Look at yourself."
She did, absolutely hating what she saw. Hating it so much, her stomach roiled. She swallowed hard to keep from vomiting.
"Repeat after me." The heat of his breath brushed just behind her ear as he said, his low voice as soft and calm as it had ever been, "I forgive myself."
She really was going to throw up. Tavy swallowed hard all over again. She looked from her own reflection to his.
He did not back down. "Say it."
Her eyes were red-rimmed. Her nose was red, too. She looked miserable. She felt that way as well—and had for so long she couldn't remember what it felt like to be anything else. "I… forgive myself." Now she also felt stupid.
"Again," he commanded.
Tavy squared her shoulders, glaring at herself as if they were mortal enemies. "I forgive myself."
"Again."
"I forgive myself," she spat, completely unprepared for the creep of anger that began to move up through her, seeping into the endless knots that her stomach had become. She didn't feel quite so stupid anymore, but the helplessness remained. She looked to Alan.
He did not look away. "Starting today, everything changes. Say it."
How this was supposed to help, she had no idea, but she dutifully repeated that too, and then she stood there, surrounded by Alan's arms and his reflection, and feeling so very small by comparison. "Now what?"
He turned her from the mirror, bringing her around to face him directly. "Now I give you what you need, like it or not."
Her legs weakened under her. She'd been trying for years to find a punishment equal to the awfulness inside her. She didn't hold a lot of hope that Alan would be able to, either, but she already knew that, regardless of how severe it might be, she wasn't going to safeword out. Not because she was the girl who never did, but because she didn't ever want to see that look of disappointment crawling across his face again. Not because of her. Compared to that, a whip would be infinitely easier to bear.
Not that Alan reached for one. His hand was as gentle as it was strong when he cupped her chin, tilting her face to his. She had just a moment of sparking awareness, the tiniest electrical current that zipped from her mouth the instant his warm lips brushed hers. It moved down her back and over her bottom, and burst like the shimmer of last night's fireworks between her trembling thighs.
One tender kiss became two, then three. His left arm snaked around her waist, drawing her in tight and close. The fingers of his right hand combed into her hair, closing in a fist intended to prevent all struggles.
Tavy wasn't struggling. Accepting this comfort, knowing that, like the calm before the storm, it wouldn't last long, she parted her lips to welcome him in, but he was already moving away. As he held her immobile, all she could do was stand in his embrace while his mouth circled from her lips to her ear.
His punishment, if it could even be called such, was as unexpected as it was devastating.
"I forgive you, too," he told her.
Her legs went out from under her, but Alan's grip was sure. He held her, and though she sagged, he didn't let her fall.
Epilogue
Late Friday morning, when all the day's other departing guests were gathering their things and heading out to meet the waiting buses, Tavy followed Alan through Cook Connie's busy kitchen and out the back door, dow
n the long cement walkway to the hidden employee parking lot where his car, a cherry red—albeit completely practical—four-door sedan, sat waiting for them. She was nervous, continuously rubbing her palms against her jeans, but when he held the passenger door open for her, she didn't argue. She simply slipped past him and climbed inside.
Everything that needed to be had already been said over the last two days, and then again this morning. Repeatedly. Sometimes quite loudly. His belt had put an end to her yelling, which accounted for the expressive wince that accompanied her sitting down. Ten minutes in front of the mirror, repeating her mantra over and over again, had helped dispel the panic and return her to some fragile semblance of calm.
She was struggling to hold onto that calm, and Alan knew it. For the entire journey from the Castle to Granger, although she didn't say one word, he could tell by the way she was breathing, squeezing her hands, and cracking her knuckles that her nerves were starting to fray again.
"Go to your mirror," he told her a few miles before they reached the outskirts of town.
Although by now used to hearing that command, Tavy's moment of confusion dissolved when she turned down the visor and opened up the compact mirror. She drew a shaky breath. "I forgive myself," she began. "Starting today, everything changes."
He made her repeat it, refusing to relieve her of the task until he pulled into the near empty parking lot beside what was once a turn of the century mercantile building (as the faded whitewash near the roof still said), but which now sported a much more modern sign: Sutters and Sutters Debt Collections.
Tavy sat frozen in the passenger seat while Alan got out. He walked around the car to get the door for her, but she made no move to accept it when he offered her a helping hand out.
"I can't," she finally said, raising pleading eyes to his. "I can't face him by myself."
"You don't have to." Alan leaned into the opening, his smile both gentle and reassuring. "Until you're strong enough to carry yourself, this is where I carry you."
Again, he offered his hand. After a moment, she took it and together, they walked inside.
The End
Maren Smith
“Hi, I'm Maren. I'm 30, married to a wonderful, dominant man, and have five four–legged children: two dogs and three cats. I love strong, authoritative men–men who are both ready and willing to leave the lady of their choosing red–bottomed and weeping and for her own good. Writing has given me the wonderful freedom to explore my spanking side without feeling 'weird.' Even better, with the invention of the Internet, I can write what I love and know it will be appreciated by people with the same interests.”
CONNECT WITH MAREN SMITH
Blog: http://badgirlscorner.wordpress.com
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If you enjoyed reading “Owning O”, I would appreciate it if you would help others enjoy this book, too.
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OTHER BOOKS BY MAREN SMITH
Last Dance for Cadence, Corbin's Bend Book 8
How to Live Without a Man
Something Has to Give
B-Flick
Bippity-Boppity-Boo
Black Sheep
Daughter of the Strong
The Diva
Enemies
The Great Prank
Jinxie’s Orchids
Katy Run Away
Kindred Spirits
Life After Rachel
The Locket
The Miner’s Wife
Mistress
Morogh the Demon
Mountain Man
My Lady Robin Hood
The Next Ex
Saga: Constance’s Story
Spanking Tails I thru X
The Suffragettes
Treasure
Varden’s Lady
Have Paddle, Will Travel
Masters of the Castle Series:
Holding Hannah (Book One)
Kaylee’s Keeper (Book Two)
Saving Sara (Book Three)
Sweet Sinclair (Book Four)
Chasing Chelsea (Book Five)
Box Sets:
With Hearts Aflame
Masters of the Castle
The Naughty List
Spanking Tails Vol. 1
Buying Brianny
By
Abbie Adams
©2015 by Blushing Books® and Abbie Adams
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Adams, Abbie
Buying Brianny
eBook ISBN: 978-1-62750-687-8
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This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.
Chapter One
Oh God. What had she been thinking? Brianny rubbed her sweaty hands down the front of her flimsy tunic. She tried to tug it down to cover more, but the motion bared her breasts at the top of the deep V. It was a toss-up as to which area she preferred the thin costume cover. She tried to cover her breasts again while still leaving the short flap—not to be confused with a skirt, as a skirt went all the way around, and her tunic was one flap covering her front and another covering the back, tied around the waist with a sash to hold it all in place—to cover her freshly waxed bikini area. The moisture gathering there made the air passing over it feel cool against her bare pussy. Which was a huge contradiction as her sex was achingly hot, and not at all content to be left alone and smoldering.
Brianny took a deep breath and squeezed her legs together, trying unsuccessfully to calm her racing heart and stop her arousal from dripping down her leg. She had never been so self-conscious and aroused all at the same time before, but then again, she'd never been auctioned off as a submissive to a crowd of say, two hundred, before either. What the hell had she been thinking? Sheesh. She obviously hadn't been thinking at all, since she'd let her sister talk her into this stupid auction. Okay, so what if Bri had actually been the one to make the joke about selling herself in the auction? She'd been kidding… surely.
Sara had always been the one to live large. Brianny had just been too shy. The word 'boring' popped into her head, and she shoved it aside. No, not boring, just more reserved. Trying to steady her useless hands and stop them from fidgeting, she straightened her slave girl costume for the twentieth time, then crossed her arms over her chest. That didn't work either, as she ended up crinkling the marathon-like paper pinned there over her braless chest. Her nipples beaded hard under the shifting, gauzy fabric.
Number two, the sign on her chest boasted boldly, second in the lineup. She'd been happy with her place in the line when she'd received her number, thinking it would be good to get it over with quickly. But now, she wished she had more submissives between her and the auction block. She probably would have taken the number off and run away at that moment; if her dear sister hadn't come back to her side just then.
"Gosh, you'd think you were heading off to slaughter
instead of the BDSM fantasy of your dreams." The largely pregnant woman smiled and hugged Brianny. Sara's teasing voice was a balm to her raging fears, soothing Brianny's frazzled nerves. Before letting go, her sister whispered in her ear, "Remember, this is fun, and this is where you find out if he really is the man for you. If he is, he will want to meet all your needs. This is it; you will know before the day is out if he is the one." She backed away from Brianny and met her eyes, then straightened the crumpled paper sign on her chest.
"What if he doesn't bid? What if he is so angry… No, what if some other—" Bri shuddered at the image in her mind of a seventy-something year old man with sagging skin hanging over his pathetically thin frame, "—man beats Kian's bids?" Her glance flitted around the immense ballroom. Her eyes had adjusted to the semi-darkened room, but that wasn't enough for her to make out faces in the crowd. "I don't know how I let you talk me into this. I haven't seen Kian since we arrived. He has to be miffed with me. This is a mistake, I know it."
When The Gavel Falls (Masters of the Castle) Page 73
