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The line she’d crossed was about a mile in her rearview mirror and quickly disappearing in the dust.

And had she apologized and possibly remedied the situation?

No.

She’d taken that damn shovel and deepened the hole even more as fast as she could.

“Fine,
Sir
.”

Maybe there’s a SAM streak in me I don’t know about.

Never one to make a dramatic scene in public, not that their little exchange would have been dramatic to the average vanilla person in the first place, Tony had hesitated for a moment, the weight of his gaze heavy on Shayla before he’d turned and headed back to the club’s office to pick up his DM name badge.

Tilly had leaned in. “Um, yeeeaaah. If you were looking for a beating, honey, I think you just found one. In the bad way. Even Gilo isn’t that brazen.”

“Gilo wasn’t treated to twenty-four hours of tease and denial, either, with a promise of getting to scene and orgasm tonight,” Shayla had muttered.

“Fair enough. You’ve got bigger balls than me, girlie. I’ve never seen your dude look so pissed off.”

“Neither have I.”

Now Shayla regretted her tone. It wasn’t Tony’s fault. He hadn’t deliberately waylaid her orgasms even longer. Derrick, the club’s owner, had gotten rear-ended in the bad and literal way that afternoon and was now dealing with insurance paperwork after his trip to the hospital and several hours spent in the ER. He’d called the volunteer manning the desk that night to please ask any of the regular DMs who showed up that night to fill in.

Tony and Shayla had been the first ones through the door. Well, Tony had been the first volunteer DM through the door that night.

So it wasn’t some bullshit excuse, either.

Shayla knew she should have been a little more charitable, especially considering the circumstances.

But…
fuck
.

Back in the present, it’d been at least fifteen minutes since they’d returned home. She knew her ass better be kneeling in here, naked and waiting, when Tony finally decided to join her in the playroom. She didn’t know what he was doing, besides dragging this out to give her time to think about what she’d done and what he might be about to do to her.

Finally, the sound of his bootheels on the floor again, heading toward the playroom. Then the sound of him stopping in the foyer, where he’d left their implement bag, a rolling suitcase, followed by the resumption of his trek and the noise of the wheels rolling across the tile and the rattle of canes and crops in the plastic tube he carried them in.

She felt rather than saw him stop in the doorway. Another long, silent moment passed. Then he crossed the room and brought the implement bag over next to where she knelt, her eyes fixed on the floor in front of her. He laid the cane tube down next to it.

And his boots came into view. The soft matte-black finish, a few stray scuffs on the squared-off toes. He stood there, waiting, silent.

Then he tapped his left boot once.

She scooted forward and kissed the top of his boot, pressing her forehead to it and now feeling even more ashamed of how she’d acted.

It wasn’t that she’d talked back to him. She was always allowed to express her opinion.

It was the attitude, the snark she’d used. The tone.

The lack of respect.

If she’d just said, “I’m angry about this, Sir, and really wish you’d reconsider because I’m horny as hell and You promised to play with me,” that likely would have earned her a long, sexy kiss, a hug, a heartfelt apology, and a promise to make it up to her.

But she’d let her feelings—and her mouth—take over.

“I’m very disappointed in you, pet,” Tony softly said.

She cringed. There were a lot of things she could deal with.

Disappointing him wasn’t one of them.

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Talk to me. Tell me what you did and what you deserve.”

She swallowed hard, her lips pressed to the top of his boot. “I was disrespectful to You,” she said, barely able to raise her voice above a whisper. “I was rude. In front of our friends. I earned at least twenty cane strokes for my actions.”

He tapped his right boot once and she changed sides, moving to that boot, kissing it, laying her cheek against it.

“Twenty? With a cane?” he asked, as if assuring himself that’s what he heard her say.

“Yes, Sir.”

They didn’t have many set punishments. Very few, in fact. Tony preferred talking things through like adults. Oh, he’d happily beat her ass for fun, but he considered their relationship more than just fun. It was a lifelong commitment he didn’t want to fuck up.

This was, however, an old issue for her. It wasn’t the first time in their relationship that she’d let her temper—and her mouth—get the better of her and she said things she wished she could take back.

She also knew if she asked for the cane he wouldn’t require as many strokes.

She hoped.

But asking for twenty of what she knew from experience would be really fucking painful strokes would, hopefully, assuage her guilt and satisfy him.

All would be forgiven, and life would go on.

Hopefully with some orgasms for her. And a reminder to her to catch herself before she let her emotions run her mouth.

Although now that he’d verbalized his disappointment in her behavior, it had taken the edge off her ardor like a damned ice-bucket challenge.

She hated disappointing him.

Hated it.

Haaated it.

It was one of the reasons that, even though she wasn’t a masochist, per se, she enjoyed getting a beating. Because she lived and loved to serve him.

He still didn’t move, didn’t speak. She kept her cheek pressed against his boot. She wouldn’t move until he told her to.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t play tonight, pet,” he said. “It wasn’t deliberate. I felt bad about it, but you didn’t make it any easier on me.”

She tried to scoot closer, to meld with his boots, to absorb into them. “I know, Sir,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

Sorry didn’t begin to cover it. Had he been angry and yelling and screaming, she might not have felt as badly as she did now.

Tony wasn’t a yeller or a screamer. His quiet, calm demeanor was one of the many things she loved about him. If anything, it made him even more dominant in her mind. Because he didn’t have an obsessive need to push people around or make a point.

He just…was.

“If you want me to stop volunteering as a DM, you need to tell me that. Otherwise, one of the responsibilities of my position is that if Derrick needs my help, I give it. As long as work doesn’t interfere. You know that.”

“I know, Sir.”

“Do you want me to stop volunteering there?”

She took a deep breath. “No, Sir. I don’t.” She knew Tony enjoyed it. And to be honest, despite the fact that they had their own private playroom at the house, it was kind of nice having the keys to a dungeon. They had Derrick’s permission to use it during off-hours if they wanted. And, in the past, they had.

“Then in the future, I expect better behavior from you. Understand? I do not want to have to have this conversation a second time. And if you make me have this conversation a second time, not only will there be punishment from me, but you will have to be the one to return the key to Derrick and explain yourself why I won’t be volunteering there anymore. Understand?”

She fought the urge to cringe. “Yes, Sir.”

Okay, screwing up in private was one thing. Well, being disciplined in private.

Having to go to one of their dear friends and explain that Tony couldn’t volunteer anymore because she’d acted like an immature bitch was something she would not allow to happen.

“Good girl.” He leaned over and stroked her hair. “Are you ready to begin?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Greeting, pet.”

She returned to his left boot, nuzzling it, kissing the top of it. Then the right. Then the back of his left hand, and his right. Then she nuzzled the front of his jeans.

Unfortunately, his cock wasn’t hard, pressing against the fly like it normally would be just before play commenced.

Dammit
.

He really was disappointed in her. That he couldn’t summon sadistic glee from this meant she truly had crossed a line.

More guilt for her. He didn’t even have to say a word for her soul to feel weighed down by it. She would mentally beat herself up over this far more than he would physically. Her physical wounds would quickly heal.

The mental berating she subjected herself to would last much longer.

“Get your cuffs out of the bag and put them on, pet,” he quietly said.

She rose up on her knees and quickly unzipped the front compartment where her things were kept for quick and easy access when at the club. Cuffs, the bit gag she preferred, her blindfold.

She didn’t miss the fact he was making her put them on herself.

Normally, when they were about to scene, he had her get them and present them to him so he could put them on her.

Another silent statement, that she was willingly accepting this punishment. That she understood the line she’d crossed and was accepting the consequences of it. He was reaffirming her acceptance of his authority.

To reinforce that this was a lesson he would not be compelled to repeat with her.

That he expected far more from her.

Far better.

When she had her cuffs on, he pointed at the bench. She climbed onto it, straddling it.

“You know how this works, pet,” he said. “I won’t restrain you for punishment. You have to willingly take them.”

She felt her tears trying to break through already. “Yes, Sir.”

Behind her, she heard him open the top of the tube, the unmistakable sound of him rooting through it to find what he wanted. She knew what he’d be looking for—the severe rattan cane he rarely used on her for more than a couple of lighter hits, just enough to spice things up if he thought she was getting too complacent.

For tonight, it would be punishment.

Fighting the urge not to flinch when he touched it against her ass, she curled her fingers around the end of the bench, closing her eyes as tears forced their way out and dripped to the floor.

“Twenty punishment strokes with a cane, pet,” he said. “That is what you want?”

“Yes, Sir.” She could barely talk without it coming out as a sob. She wanted this over with, quickly, so she could curl up in his lap and cry. They would likely talk again after. Then, maybe, they’d play. Depending on how they both felt.

She might be too emotionally wrung out by then. She knew Tony was no longer angry with her. If he was, they wouldn’t be there in the playroom. Another benefit of his calm demeanor was he rarely showed anger when he felt it.

But he refused to play angry—or to mete out punishment when angry.

He was a man in control of himself above all else.

“Count them, pet.”

He slid the cane up and down her ass for a moment, then paused. She had just enough time to suck in a breath and start blowing it out when he took the first stroke.

Zwhip.

A sharp line of fiery pain sliced through her nervous system, making her gasp. “One, Sir…”

By the fifth stroke she was sobbing, more from her own shame than the pain.

By the tenth, it took every ounce of concentration she had to get the words out.

He paused. “Do you want me to continue?”

“Yes, Sir.” She didn’t want this dragged out, hanging over her head. She didn’t want them delayed.

She wanted it done, over with, her soul and conscience purged and cleansed by the pain.

Wanted to be able to move on and not dwell on her shitty behavior.

No, in a normal relationship it wasn’t much more than a little snark. But Tony not only demanded calm and controlled behavior from himself, but from her as well. He wanted her using her brain and not simply reacting from emotions.

He expected better of her.

Hell, she expected better of herself and still couldn’t believe how she’d handled it.

And this
was
what she’d signed on for.

It wasn’t like she didn’t know his personality or the responsibilities on her head when she fell in love with him.

She knew.

She’d agreed to it.

She’d wanted it.

The eleventh stroke bit into her. Not even subspace could take the edge off the pain, because in her current emotional state she knew there was no way she’d drop into it.

Enduring was her only option, because no way in hell would she safeword.

Not for something she’d rightfully earned, something that was her fault.

When she counted off the twentieth stroke, her emotional dam burst. She was aware of Tony draping a blanket over her, helping her off the bench, cuddling her in his arms.

Calling her his good girl.

This wouldn’t be held against her. He wouldn’t throw it in her face. It was done, as far as he was concerned. In the past.

Eventually, he picked her up and carried her to their bedroom, laying her on the bed and cuddling with her. It was late, and now, with a world-class cry out of her system, exhaustion set in. Physically and emotionally.

He didn’t seem to be in any mood to be frisky himself, either.

He tenderly kissed her forehead. “Love you, pet. You’re My good girl.”

“I love You, too, Sir.”

She curled up next to him while he turned on the TV, and in seconds, she was fast asleep.

* * * *

No, this wasn’t how Tony thought he’d be spending his evening and night. He’d planned on tanning her ass, sure. In the fun way. Accompanied by a forced orgasm scene that would lead to hot sex upon their return home.

Not…this.

He really had thought he’d misheard Shayla at first in the club. In the early days they’d butted heads a couple of times, mildly and at home. Leftover emotional triggers from her ex.

He got it. He didn’t fault her for it.

But ’tude like that, at the club,
and
in front of Tilly?