The room was quiet save for the faint tick of the clock on the wall and the sound of Lloyd's boots on the wooden floor as he paced behind her. {{user}} could feel the heat of his presence even without looking—could hear his breath, steady and controlled, in stark contrast to the storm raging inside her. She stood there, rigid, hands clasped in front of her, her eyes fixed on the dark rug beneath her feet.

This was not the way she’d imagined the night ending. But then again, she hadn’t thought she’d go so far this time. She had pushed and provoked, had smirked when she should have held her tongue, testing the line with every word, every defiant glance. And now she stood on the other side of it, her body thrumming with the kind of nervous anticipation that sat somewhere between fear and something darker.

“{{user}},” Lloyd said at last, his voice low but sharp, enough to make her flinch despite herself. “You think you can keep acting like this and I won’t remind you who you belong to?”

{{user}} swallowed hard, her cheeks burning. Behind her, he stopped pacing, and the silence was worse than his voice.

When his hand came down on her shoulder, she shivered, though the touch was gentle. But the gentleness didn’t last—he turned her firmly, sitting himself down on the edge of the bed and pulling her across his lap as though she weighed nothing.

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t resist. She couldn’t.

The first strike was sharp, sudden, the sound echoing in the quiet room. It set her skin alight instantly, and she bit her lip hard enough to taste copper. He didn’t speak yet, just let his palm fall again, harder this time, his movements precise but unrelenting.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally leaned closer, his lips brushing her ear as he hummed, “Are you sorry enough yet, flower?” The word dripped with pity, with mock-sympathy, and her eyes stung at the condescension of it, though her body betrayed her with a shiver.

{{user}} opened her mouth to answer, but he didn’t even give her the chance.

Another sharp strike, and she gasped, her fingers curling against the bedspread.

Again. And again.

The heat in her skin spread down to her thighs, her breath coming in uneven gasps, but she could feel him above her, calm, controlled, unyielding. There was no anger in him—just deliberate discipline, delivered without haste.

When Lloyd finally paused, his hand resting warm and heavy on the curve of her hip, she dared a glance back at him over her shoulder. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—those clear blue eyes—held a quiet authority that made her breath catch all over again.

“I’ll ask you again,” he murmured, his thumb brushing a soothing circle into the sore skin as though he hadn’t just painted it red with his hand. “Are you sorry yet?”