The punishment

The lights were lower tonight.

Not dim. Just softened. A calculated decision that made every shadow stretch farther and every breath land heavier.

Ivy stood in the center of the training room, naked under the weight of Victor’s gaze. Her body still ached from yesterday’s touch. Her thighs pulsed with restless heat. But what made her tremble tonight was not desire.

It was guilt.

She had touched herself. Just once. Her fingers brushing between her legs sometime after midnight, slick with need, throbbing from denial. She told herself it would help. That she would only tease the edge. That maybe he wouldn’t know.

But he always knew.

Victor circled her slowly. A leather strap curled loosely in one hand. The fingers of his other hand ghosted across the curve of her lower back like he was marking the distance between mercy and punishment. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows. The first two buttons of his black shirt undone. His expression was unreadable. Not cold. Not kind. Just focused. Present.

And that made everything worse.

“You disobeyed me,” he said finally, voice low and exact.

Her breath hitched.

“Yes. And I regret it.”

His hand slid around her hip. Not cruelly. Not affectionately. Just firm. Grounded. Possessive.

“I gave you a rule.”

“I know.”

“And you broke it.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He stepped closer, his chest nearly brushing her spine.

“Are you sorry for touching yourself,” he murmured, “or for getting caught?”

She parted her lips, but no answer came.

He leaned in, his breath against her ear.

“You do not have the right to your pleasure. Not unless I give it to you.”

“I know,” she said again, voice raw.

His hand moved lower, tracing the curve of her thigh with measured pressure.

“And yet,” he added, quieter now, “you came.”

“No.” The word rushed out. “I stopped. I didn’t finish.”

His hand stilled.

That, it seemed, changed everything.

He moved in front of her, eyes searching hers. They were storm-gray and steady. He did not blink.

“You stopped?”

She nodded.

“You denied yourself what was mine to give?”

“Yes.”

He looked at her for a long, pulsing beat.

“That is the only reason I am going to let you stay standing.”

She swallowed.

“Face the wall.”

She turned slowly.

“Hands above your head.”

She obeyed, heart pounding as she pressed her palms against the smooth surface. Her chest rose and fell. Her skin flushed hot.

He stepped behind her again. The leather strap dragged lightly along her hip, then across her thigh. He let it trail from hand to hand, slow and deliberate.

“You need to learn what it means to resist,” he said. “Not just your body. But your mind.”

She nodded once.

“You will count,” he said. “Out loud.”

The first strike came swiftly. A sharp kiss of leather across the backs of her thighs. Not brutal. Not light. Measured. Focused.

“One,” she gasped.

Another.

“Two.”

Then came three. Four. Five.

He spaced each hit carefully. Letting the silence between them stretch her tighter than the blows themselves. Her skin stung. Then burned. Then screamed.

By the seventh, her knees shook.

By the tenth, her voice cracked.

He paused.

“You will not speak unless spoken to,” he said quietly.

She clenched her jaw. Nodded.

His hand smoothed over the red marks on her thighs, palm warm against the heat he’d built. His touch moved higher. Her hips shifted involuntarily. A silent plea.

He noticed.

“Still,” he said.

She froze.

“You do not get to decide when you are ready.”

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He turned and walked to the cabinet in the corner. When he returned, he held a sleek black vibrator in his hand. Compact. Wireless. The kind designed for control and precision. When he turned it on, it buzzed low and steady.

Ivy’s knees nearly gave out.

Victor moved behind her, running the tip of the vibrator along the inside of her thigh.

“Spread your legs.”

She obeyed.

He pressed the toy against her folds. Not hard. Not deep. Just enough to make her gasp.

Her hands flattened against the wall. Her legs trembled.

“Breathe.”

She tried. Shallow. Shaky. Her body tilted toward the sensation. Her breath came fast and uneven.

Then he pulled the toy away.

She cried out. A low, aching moan of protest.

“I did not give you permission.”

“I’m sorry.”

He circled again, slower now. Letting the heat of her need fill the room.

“I am going to bring you to the edge,” he said. “Over and over. And you will hold it. Until I say.”

“Yes.”

He placed the vibrator against her again. More firmly this time. Direct pressure against her clit. Her hips rocked forward, chasing the vibration, legs fighting for control.

But she did not come.

Not yet.

Then he pulled away again.

Then returned.

Then removed it again.

By the sixth time, her body sobbed with need.

By the ninth, she cried openly. Not from pain. From restraint. From being held so close to release that it burned.

Her forehead dropped to the wall. Her body trembled. Her thighs slick and shaking.

“Please,” she whispered.

He gave no answer.

The vibrator returned once more. Pressed to her swollen clit with a steady, merciless hum. Hard. Fast. Exact.

She screamed. The sound broke from her chest. Raw. Desperate. But she did not climax.

He pulled the toy away again.

Then he stepped closer. Pressed the length of his body to her back.

“You have more control than I expected.”

She could not speak. Her lips moved, but no sound came.

He dropped the vibrator to the mat.

Then turned her gently.

Guided her down onto her knees.

He crouched in front of her and took her face in both hands.

“I want you to remember this,” he said. “This ache. This hunger. This fire under your skin. It belongs to me.”

She nodded, breath catching. Her body was soaked. Her legs quivered. But she smiled through the tears.

“I remember.”

He kissed her. Possessively. Deeply. The kind of kiss that claimed her soul before her mouth.

When he pulled away, he rested her head against his chest and held her there while her breath slowly returned to rhythm.

“You did well,” he said.

Her thighs ached. Her clit throbbed. Her voice was gone. But none of it mattered.

She felt owned.

And she wanted more.