Missing Ink

by E J Frost

  My whole body’s quivering. This feels so unfair. I shouldn’t have to deal with this when shit is falling apart at my business.

  “Brenna, any questions?”

  I grab hold of my lady balls and try to pull it together. My hold’s shaky. Like every damn muscle in my body.

  “No, Sir,” I grit.

  “Good. Up over my knees.”

  Now’s the time to tell him to fuck off. To use my safe word like I did with Ten and walk away from all assholes who think they can control every aspect of my life. But I can’t bring myself to open my mouth. Mac’s my Sir. The Dom I’ve wanted. And I respect him, I really do, when he’s not being an asshole about my business.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Logan herd everyone else out of the room. The hallway door closes behind them. At least I’m not going to have to do this in front of an audience.

  Grudgingly, I haul myself up and over Mac’s knees.

  “Wrists,” he says.

  With as much grace as lobbing a bag of trash, I throw my hands into the small of my back.

  Chuckling, Mac closes his hand over my wrists. “I’m not accepting yellow for this, but I will honor red. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” I hiss. “Are you trying to push me into saying it?”

  “No, Bren. Let me help you.”

  “This is not helping me!” I snap.

  “Uh-huh. Toes on the floor, pointing in. There’s no count. We’re done when I say we’re done.”

  I want to scream at him. Rage. Let out all my fear and frustration in words that bite and tear and push him away.

  Instead, I grip the rug with my toes, pushing my heels wide.

  His hand circles over my ass, once, twice. I expect a warm-up, the way he has when we’ve done impact scenes.

  Instead, the block of wood he calls a hand slams into the crease of my ass hard enough that tears spring to my eyes.

  “Ow, fuck!”

  “Up on your toes. No kicking.”

  I wasn’t even aware of kicking. I grab the carpet again with my toes.

  His impossibly hard hand slams into the crease of my ass again. Does he soak his damn hands in salt water to toughen them?

  “Fuck!”

  “That’s it. Let it out.”

  I don’t for several more stinging, eye-watering smacks, just to spite him. I’m a masochist. I can take whippings, for fuck’s sake. I’ve taken his damn whipping. I’m still wearing his marks a few inches above where he’s hitting me. I can handle a little spanking.

  Only Mac really knows how to make it hurt. More than it should. He smacks the crease and my upper thighs, over and over, side to side, without a pause, with that ridiculously hard hand. I swear the ridge of his palm is made of steel, not skin and bone. My thighs must be purple by now.

  “Enough, Sir!”

  “Told you, bold girl, we’re done when I say we’re done. Is that beginning to smart?”

  Beginning? The backs of my thighs are on fire. Not in a good way. This isn’t fun. This isn’t sexy. It hurts. A-fucking-lot.

  He angles his hand for the next series of smacks, back on the crease of each cheek. It feels like he’s ripped off the top layer of my skin and is slamming straight into muscle and bone, the sting shoots so deep. The angry tears standing cold in my eyes heat and spill. I sniffle.

  “C’mon, sweetheart. Let it out,” he coaxes.

  “Fuck you, fuck you, Sir!”

  “’Least I got a Sir this time.” Mac releases my wrists, only to gather my dreads in his hand and squeeze. He controls my head, holding me with my back slightly arched, while he keeps slamming his damn hand into my thighs. “Keep your hands where I left them. Curse me all you like. Let it all out.”

  I curse him as the hits keep coming, grinding the pain further and further into me. My voice thickens and my words lose shape. The tears burn and flow. I sob out all my turmoil as he peppers my upper thighs with strokes that feel like he’s flaying the muscle right off my bones.

  Finally, there’s a stroke that doesn’t fall. His burningly hot palm cups my ass cheek. He rubs, switches cheeks, and rubs again.

  “Still hate me, bold girl?” he asks softly.

  I don’t hate him at all. I’m calm and empty and strangely grateful to him. When was the last time I felt grateful after a punishment?

  “Totally hate you,” I sniffle.

  “Yeah, I can tell. I’m going to help you sit up and you’re going to let me get a cloth and wipe your face and then we’re going to have a cuddle. And if you keep locking me out, I’ll turn you around and go at you with the other hand. Your ass will wear out a lot faster than my hands, trust me.”

  I do. I trust him. “Yes, Sir.”

  “That’s my bold girl.” He helps me off his lap and walks me over to the couch where he lies me on my side, so my tormented thighs don’t touch the couch. He returns after a minute with a damp paper towel that he uses to wipe my face and holds over my nose until I blow. Then he slides onto the couch and pulls me on top of him. His jeans are rough against the fronts of my thigh, but there’s no bulge biting into me. Didn’t the spanking get him hard?

  His hand settles at my nape and he tucks my face into his neck. His spicy, clean scent, flavored with the salt of sweat, rushes up my nose, down into my lungs. It fills me with a sense of rightness .

  “Now that you’re calm, tell me how you’re going to recreate your design book,” he rumbles, his heavy chest rising and falling beneath me.

  I settle into him, fitting my curves into the planes of his body. “A lot of hard work. I have pictures on my phone. They’re not as good. I will redraw everything. It’ll just take time.”

  “Good. I know it hurts, but I also know you can do it.” He squeezes me gently. “In the meanwhile, we’ll find somewhere that does high resolution prints, so you have something for your clients to look at.”

  “That’s a good idea. Thanks.” I take a deep breath and let it out. “I’m sorry I was an asshole, Sir.”

  “Apology accepted, sweetheart.”

  “I just . . . it’s my business, Sir. It’s different.”

  “No, Bren, it’s not. I’m not trying to control your business. I’m controlling you. Do you understand the difference?”

  Now that he says it, I do. I nod into his neck.

  “Words, girl.”

  “Yes, Sir, I understand the difference.”

  He rubs his hand up and down my back. “Good girl. That gets you T-Relief, because you are going to have some bruises.”

  I can believe it. “My thighs are on fire, Sir.”

  “I bet they are, you little leather-ass. I had to tell you to let go about a hundred times before you actually did.”

  “It wasn’t even a dozen times,” I grumble.

  Mac chuckles. “You are such a hard-case sometimes, Bren. You’re not getting out of a punishment, either.”

  “What?” I try to sit up straight but Mac clamps the back of my neck and holds me in place.

  “I said, cuddle .”

  “You punished me already!” I protest but nuzzle back into his neck.

  “That wasn’t a punishment, girl. That was for your benefit. You needed to open up and let me help you deal with what’s happening. Punishment’s a separate beast. And I’ll give you a hint, it’s not going to involve impact.”

  What? Punishment’s always impact. Or riding a damn wooden horse, if it’s Ten.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “If you’re getting punished, it’s because you’ve defied me. Punishment’s about our power-exchange. Expect me to make you submit in ways I haven’t before and that deepen our relationship.”

  “Oh.” I swallow hard. “Okay.”

  “Okay? That’s all you’ve got? ‘Cause that’d be a first, my little sammie.”

  “I’m not a smart-assed masochist,” I grumble.

  “Sure.” Mac’s laughter bounces me on his barrel chest. “Seriously, how are you doing now?”

&nb
sp; “I’m okay . . . I’m good, actually, except that my thighs hurt.” I reach back and rub. “Any chance of that T-Relief now, Sir?”

  “Yes, girl. How about a bath and some cream and then you can draw this design for Nicky so it’s not hanging over you. Then, if you can stay this open with me, we’ll have a nice fuck before you write me a five-hundred-word essay on toxic independence.”

  “Toxic independence!” I huff.

  “You heard me.”

  “I can’t— I mean, I’m not very good at writing things. That’s, um, the reason I didn’t end up going to college. My high school math and science grades were okay. But I had trouble with English, history, social studies, anything where I needed to write. Guidance counsellors said college probably wasn’t for me because I struggled with essays. My personal statement on college applications wasn’t even good enough.”

  Mac rubs my back quietly for a long moment. “I understand what you’re saying to me, girl. I understand why this might be hard for you, but I’m not going to change the punishment. I told you being with me might not always be easy and that I’d push you outside your comfort zone. I want you to do this for me. There won’t be a time limit on it. I want you to work on it for an hour each day until you’ve got something to show me. Doesn’t have to be perfect. I’m not giving you a grade. I just want you to think and be honest with me. That’s all I’m asking of you.”

  I swallow hard. That still seems like a lot to ask. Five hundred words is a fucking ton. Pages, right? I can’t remember the last time I wrote a whole page of anything. I know Emily writes books that are two hundred times that long, and I admire her for that, but I have no idea how she does it.

  “Could I ask Emily to read it before I show it to you, Sir?”

  “Emily?” he asks.

  “Yes, Sir. She’s a really good writer. She’ll tell me if I’ve got it all wrong.”

  “Girl, this is not a test. This is about your submission to me . What’s between us . I told you before that no one gets a vote in what’s between us and I meant it. I like that you’re asking for help, but the person you come to for help is me . If you’re struggling that hard, I will help you.”

  Something finally, finally clicks. I snuggle back into him and close my eyes, enjoying him holding me. “Yes, Sir.”

  “Ah, now there’s where we should be, my bold girl.”

  “Your snuggleslut, Sir.”

  He adjusts me in his arms so not even a breath can pass between us. “Yes, girl, my snuggleslut.”

  Chapter 16

  Is there anything as special, as precious, as worth fighting and dying for, as the moment your woman gives you everything? Amy held so much back from me. Her trust. Huge, life-altering secrets like our daughter’s true parentage. The deep insecurities and anger that drove her. I know that I stayed in the service long after I should have left because it gave me something to fight for, when Amy wouldn’t give me anything.

  Bren gave me everything tonight. She didn’t say the words, but I know what we shared. She let me in completely. She let my control calm and steady her when she was on the verge of flying into a panic. She let my comfort ease her anxiety. She admitted her weakness. She let me help . I’ve never felt closer to anyone, stronger, or more worthy of the gift of her submission.

  And because nothing is as big a turn on as Bren’s submission, my damn dick has been hard enough to hammer nails since she called herself my snuggleslut and curled up against me. Spanking her would normally have gotten my dick’s interest but that spanking was not about sex. It was about fixing her fucking up our power-exchange. Everything since I brought her back under control has been about sex, at least for my little head, but that’s not what Bren needs right now. A Navy buddy who asked me about the lifestyle said he could get on board with a woman who obeyed his every command, gave him daily blow jobs, and offered up her ass. What he didn’t get was that to be the man giving those commands, you also have to be the man who is willing to sacrifice sex in favor of taking care of your submissive when that’s what she needs. Right now, Bren needs me to be the Dom who massages away all the knots that tension has built in her neck and shoulders, the Dom who rubs cream into the impressive spread of bruises coming up on the backs of her legs, the Dom who cuddles her while she draws the portrait—of Elvis as it turns out—her employee needs for tomorrow, and then redraws it twice more when she’s not satisfied with the first attempt. She needs me to be the Dom who calms her and soothes her and tells her it’s going to be okay until she finally falls asleep.

  And then she needs me to be the Dom who tucks her under the covers, slips out of the bedroom quietly, and walks downstairs to find Logan and figure out what the fuck we’re going to do about Mr. Move On and her missing book.

  I hear Emily before I reach Logan’s office door. She’s talking in an almost sing-song voice. I’ve heard this before and know she’s dictating one of her books. Logan should be free. I still knock, because it’s polite. Not because I still feel like a guest in this house. Since turning down Rolling Blue, my future has become cemented here, in this house, with these people I care about. Bren said one of her fears was that I’d already had my family and wouldn’t want another, but I’ve never wanted anything more than this second family I’ve found.

  “Come in,” Logan calls.

  I join him at the desk and find he’s already working on the problem. Max’s bearded face is on Logan’s computer screen and Logan’s taking notes as Max speaks.

  “. . . into the text traffic between Mad Bob and the Knights. They’re not even smart enough to use encryption, so, definitely not Aryan Nation, because those fuckers use encryption even Homeland can’t break. Got a text to Mad Bob at thirteen-fifty that says ‘package obtained.’ Package.” Max snorts. “Fucking wannabees. Then there’s a text from Mad Bob back to that number which says ‘package received.’ I figure it’s either at his shop or his apartment near JFK. Time to begin our reconnoiter, buddy.”

  “Hold your horses, Max,” I say, pulling one of the leather-padded, guest chairs around to sit next to Logan. I really need to bring my desk from my apartment. “This isn’t Die Hard . No reconnoitering until we’re sure there’s no blow-back on Brenna.”

  “While I hate to agree with Convo,” Logan says, his grin sly and sharp, the fucker. “We need to be certain these assholes aren’t involved in something else. Drugs? Money-laundering? They could be running a lot through Mad Bob’s shop. We need to be certain we’re not dealing with something over our heads before we go in.”

  Max scratches his beard. “What if I go? I’m not the public face of LMM. There’s no connection between me and Missing Ink. Unless they’re following us, and I’ve seen no sign they are, then there’s no way for them to know who I am.”

  I immediately begin shaking my head. Max is a truly scary operative when it comes to tech, but on the ground, he has all the subtlety of the proverbial bull in a china shop.

  “I’ll check Mad Bob’s shop to see if any more of Bren’s designs are there. I have an excuse for going back since the girl on the desk has seen me once.”

  Logan taps his pen on his notepad. “Mac, if they’ve been at Missing Ink any time in the past week, they’ll have seen you with her.”

  “I didn’t leave my eyes and ears at Mayport Base, Lo. Why do you think I’ve spent so much time on the couch in her shop? No one’s been casing the place, and no one’s been following her. These guys are amateurs.”

  “Amateurs can inflict the same amount of damage as a pro, Mac. They just have to get lucky instead of being good.” He runs his hand through his hair. “If you’re set on this, at least let me wire you so if it goes bad you’ve got immediate back up.”

  “No argument from me,” I say.

  “You’ve got your concealed carry for New York?”

  “No, hasn’t come through yet, and I’m not walking into a store on a Saturday morning carrying a piece. I’ve got pepper spray.”

  Logan shakes his head. “Mad B
ob’s more likely to be there on the weekends. Let’s wait until Monday.”

  “No, we’re doing this tomorrow. If there’s any chance of getting the book back for her straight away, we’re taking it.” Am I playing the hero? Probably. Doesn’t make me wrong. “Mad Bob might be more likely to be there tomorrow, but there are more likely to be other people in the shop and on the street as well.”

  “You’re killing me,” Logan grumbles. “Let me text Manny to make sure he can be there. You’re not doing this without real back up, Mac.”

  “I don’t consider you fake back up, Lo, but I’d be happy to have Manny there, too.”

  “Well, that’s something.” Logan pulls out his phone and taps out a text. His phone immediately beeps in response. “Manny says he’s free until noon.”

  “Shop’s listed as being open at oh-ten-hundred,” Max says.

  “Let’s give him a half-hour to get busy and I’ll go in.”

  “That’s a plan,” Max says.

  Logan groans. “Can we go over this some more before the sacrificial lamb trots into the den of Aryans? Max, do you have a floor plan of the shop? Can you add Manny to the call so we can strategize?”

  I clap Logan on the shoulder. “What would we do without you, son?”

  “Get to bed earlier,” Logan grumbles. “Emily, don’t think I’ve taken my eye off the time. You have five minutes.”

  Despite the fact that she has a large headset on and is talking into it, Emily doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes, Daddy.”

  “If you need to put her to bed, we can reconvene in the morning—”

  “Emmy knows the routine. She can get started by herself and I’ll go up in thirty.”

  When we’re still strategizing thirty-five minutes later, Logan gets visibly twitchy. Other than talking through a couple of worst-case scenarios, I don’t think we’ve made any headway in the last ten minutes, so I call time.

  “Boys, I think we have a plan.” I clap Logan on the shoulder. “Let’s call it a night.”