The First Strike

The first slap lands like revelation, and I stop breathing. Pain blooms across my left cheek—sharp, stinging, immediate—but underneath it runs something else. Something warm and liquid and desperately needed. My fingers clutch at his thigh, nails digging through expensive fabric, and a sound escapes me that's half gasp, half moan. "One," I manage. "Good girl." His gloved hand returns to stroke where he's just marked, soothing the sting. "Remember, your safeword is 'mercy.' Use it if you need to. And Amelia—" His fingers trace lower, dangerously close to where I'm already wet. "Tonight, we only go as far as you explicitly ask for. Nothing more. Understand?" "Yes, Sir." The second strike comes harder, and this time I'm prepared. The pain radiates outward, mixing with the lingering heat from the first, and I feel my body responding in ways I didn't expect. My hips shift involuntarily, seeking friction, seeking relief. "Two." "You're taking this beautifully." His voice is strained now, rou