Broken Submission

The Lie

She stiffened in surprise.

Ignored her sudden stillness, he ran his hand down her side, fingers glancing off her exposed ribs. "You let this go for too long. You haven't taken care of yourself, and I am going to remedy that."

Derick looked down at the stiff sub. It was clear that she did not appreciate his assessment of the situation. No matter. This was his club, and he took on a level of responsibility for each and every member. This situation was not just her failure but his own.

"A few strokes of a cane will serve as a lasting reminder of this conversation," he said. He watched her reactions closely. Many subs would back down when faced with a cane. Either she was a true pain slut, or she was punishing herself for something. He nodded, though she likely couldn't see with her eyes glued to the floor.

"Nose to the corner while I retrieve the cane."

Her breaths were even and deliberate as she turned and walked to the corner of his office. He admired her form—feet shoulder-length apart, arms behind her back, nose and forehead against the wall in a lean that put her blistered ass on display. He pulled a medium thickness cane off the wall, thick enough to have some impact, thin enough to carry a sting. He also pulled some salve out of his desk and an aftercare towel, just in case.

"Return to the desk."

She peeled her forehead off the wall. Corner time was emotionally charged for her. Embarrassment warred with arousal, and her pride definitely took a hit. She resumed her position at the desk, nerves welling in her chest. She'd rarely taken a cane, the thin, targeted area seeming brutal to her and lacking the solid, meaty satisfaction of a hand or a paddle.

The cane whistled just barely as it rent the air, and she yelped as fire blazed across her sit spot. His aim was perfect—she wouldn't be able to sit down without feeling his marks for a week. It came down again—once, twice, three times in quick succession. She choked on a sob, and he pulled back. Before she knew it, she was bawling, sprawled out on his desk, blazing red ass in the air.

She did not cry pretty. These were open-mouth, cathartic sobs. Ignoring previous evidence that she did not enjoy being held, Derek slid her off the desk and cuddled her to his chest. He grabbed the towel and salve with one hand and sank into the couch. To his relief, she buried her face into his chest and clung to him, body shaking with the force of her sobs.

He made soothing sounds, gently stroking her hair, her back, anything within reach. Eventually she calmed, and he handed her the towel. His shirt stuck to his chest with snot and tears, but he didn't mind. He was pleasantly surprised when she didn't jump off him right away, embarrassed or worse, apologizing. Instead, she laid bonelessly against him, and when he checked her face, he found that she had fallen asleep.

He studied her then. Her face was swollen and blotchy, but her tears had washed away her make-up, and he could see the dark circles beneath her eyes. One of her hands was tucked up near her face, and when he looked closely, he found crescent moon scars scattered across her palms, as though she made a habit of digging in her nails until she bled.

She was in her thirties—no husband, no kids, although he had seen enough of the nude female form to note signs that pointed to the idea that she had been pregnant once. A soft knock sounded through the door before it opened a sliver. Derek checked her face, but she didn't stir. One of Derek's monitors poked his head in.

"You doing all right in here, boss?" he whispered. "Want someone to take over?

Derek shook his head. "What have we got in the kitchen? Enough for a few meals?"

Jack's eyebrows raised, but he didn't ask any questions. "Sure I can put together a to-go bag."

"Thanks." Derek looked down at the sleeping woman in his arms. "I think I'm going to head out soon, you guys got everything covered here?"

The man nodded. "Yeah, we've got it, you do what you need to do."

After Jack left, Derek stroked the hair around Amelia's face until she stirred.

"Come on, honey. Let's get you to Sam, and then we'll take you home."

Amelia blinked hard several times before her vision cleared of tears and sleep. She'd fall asleep on his chest; that had never happened before. She jerked back, mouth opening to apologize, and he covered it with his hand.

"No apologies," he said.

She focused on her breathing, nails digging into her palms as she strove to replace the wall around her and her emotions. To squash her misguided desire to rely on someone else. When she opened her eyes and glanced at his face, she found he was watching her with an eerily knowing expression.

But he didn't say anything other than to tell her to turn around so that he could apply the salve. The moment was uncomfortable, but she couldn't easily apply it herself, and she would regret it tomorrow if she didn't accept the anti-inflammatory cream. Not that he'd allow it anyway, she reflected. She'd just wind up over his knee getting her ass slathered in salve. She was going to miss this place.

She was a sub through and through, even when she wished she wasn't. Before the scene, her desire to please, to care for and to be cared for in return, had put her in an awful situation. Here, she could meet those needs without getting tangled up in the messiness of real life, in real codependence. Her life was her own now, and no matter how much of her wanted to reach out, wanted to accept the help that Derek was offering, this wasn't his responsibility. It was hers.