Her throat works as she swallows. I watch the collar shift with the movement.
"Yes, Sir."
Close enough.
I stand, moving behind her where she can't see me. Where every strike will be a surprise.
The crop feels right in my hand. Balanced. Precise.
I trail the leather tip down the length of her spine, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. I flick it gently across her ass cheeks. Emmaleen shivers but doesn't make a sound.
Smart girl.
"We begin now," I tell her. "Remember—hold it in. Let me read you."
I raise the crop.
And then bring it down across her ass with controlled force.
Thecrackechoes like a gunshot.
Emmaleen's body jerks against the restraints. A sharp inhale—almost a gasp—cuts through the silence.
She whimpers, but doesn't scream.
I watch the pale skin of her ass turn pink where the crop landed. A perfect line of color blooming across the curve.
Beautiful.
I pause to pick put the candle, then light it.
Emmaleen is already trying to soothe herself with controlled breathing.
I drip the wax onto the welt. Then, immediately, as if the two actions were one, I raise the crop again and let it land. This time, lower. Across the crease where her ass meets her thighs.
A whimper escapes her throat. Small. Choked off almost immediately.
She's trying so hard to be good.
More wax.
Crack.
The opposite cheek. Symmetry matters.
Another whimper. Louder this time.
I let the wax pool along the wick for a moment, bending down to get it close to her skin, then let it drip. Emmaleen is biting her lip, stifling screams. Tears are running down her cheeks.
I pause, studying the pattern of marks forming across her skin. The way her fingers curl into fists. The tremor running through her legs.
And that's when I hear it.
The voice.
My voice—but not mine. Deeper. Colder. Something that lives in the space between my ribs where my heart should be.
She can take more. You know she can. She wants to prove herself. Let her.