Brats and Battlescars
I wasn't expecting peace and quiet. Hell, I had played this game long enough to know better. When a newly minted Dom called me up like a kid with a broken toy, I should have known I wasn't getting a sweet little sub in pigtails and knee socks. No, what I got was a chaos gremlin in fishnets with a smile that promised disobedience and insubordination.
"Her name's Lisa… she's… um… spirited," Jeremy informed me over the phone.
Spirited? Cute word.
What he meant was: she talks back, she laughs when you scold her, and she says "Yes, Sir" like it means "Yeah, sure, whatever."
Now, she's standing in my playroom, hands on hips, smirking like she owns the place. Jeremy is sitting off to the side watching wide-eyed and pale. Poor kid looks like he's about to puke.
I give her my best Dom stare… steady… calm… full of authority. "You speak when spoken to… understand?"
She bats her lashes. "Yes, Sir."
Some Doms want quiet obedience. Me? Apparently, I signed up for the sass Olympics. I have gold-medal brat energy right here in my playroom, and yet… I'm quite intrigued.
It was Jeremy's idea. Poor kid sounded like he was drowning in the bratty attitude of his new submissive when he called me up a few days earlier.
"She won't listen," he said, frantic. "She talks back constantly. I told her to kneel, and she laughed. I asked her to call me 'Sir' and she said 'Why? You didn't earn it yet.'"
I had laughed. Not because it was funny---though it kind of was---but because I had been there. Every experienced Dom had that at least one story. The girl who flipped your protocols inside out and dared you to do something about it.
"You want me to break her?" I asked.
"No," Jeremy said quickly. "I just… I just want to watch how you handle it… I need to learn. She's not… bad… she's just… a lot."
"A lot?" I echoed. "Yeah, alright. Bring her by this weekend. I'll see what I can do."
I had no idea what I was in for.
Saturday, 2:00PM, my house. Playroom prepped, toys laid out neatly, dungeon warm, ambient light on low. Everything tidy, controlled. I like controlled, it was the cornerstone of my BDSM life style.
Then she walked in. Five-foot-nothing, pure attitude in boots and ripped fishnets. Hair dyed blue, face and lip piercings, with defiance in her voice. Eyes sharp as a blade, and twice as dangerous.
She looked around like she had been here before, like she owned the place. Jeremy followed her like a lost puppy with PTSD.
"Strip. Kneel. Face me." I said.
She gave me a slow blink. "You don't want my name first? A glass of wine? Maybe a massage?"
I arched a brow.
She grinned. "Fine… fine… keep your pants on."
With a dramatic sigh, she peeled off layers until she was down to nothing but that smirk. Then she knelt… sort of. One knee down, the other cocked sideways like she was posing for a glamour shot in Brat Quarterly.
"You call that kneeling?"
"You call that a command?" she shot back.
Jeremy flinched. I didn't. I stepped forward, crop under her chin, forcing her gaze to mine.
"Let's get one thing straight," I said, voice calm but cold. "You may belong to Jeremy, but in this room, for the next hour, you obey me… or you leave."
She tilted her head. "And if I don't leave?"
"Then you'll learn why some Doms have bad shoulders."
The first crack of the crop got her attention. Not because it hurt, but because I didn't hesitate. By the third strike, the smirk had faded. By the seventh, it was back again… stronger… more defiant.
"You hit like someone who owns a first aid kit," she said through a chuckle.
I paused. "That's because I do."
Jeremy made a noise somewhere between a whimper and a groan.
I turned Lisa over the spanking bench and secured her wrists and ankles. Her ass was already striped bright pink, but she needed more. Much more.
I switched to my favourite leather paddle.
*CRACK*
*CRACK*
*CRACK*
"Color?" I asked.
"Green," she said, "and your form's improving."
I choked back a laugh. Damn, she was funny. She was full of wit and a perfect brat attitude, such a dangerous combo. I changed the angle, focused on rhythm, and built some intensity.
By minute thirty, she was panting, but still smirking. There was some challenge still in her eyes, but also now some signs of respect.
"Want to safeword?" I asked.
"Want a cookie?" she shot back.
CRACK.
"Smartass."
"Sir Smartass," she corrected. "Show some respect."
We played longer than I had meant to. I made her count. I made her thank me for every stroke. She rolled her eyes so hard I worried about retinal damage, but she obeyed. Like a brat with exaggerated sighs and sarcastic giggles, but she finally obeyed my commands.
And Jeremy? Poor kid looked like he was watching a five-alarm fire. Horrified, fascinated, and maybe a little aroused.
Finally, I brought her down and unstrapped her, then guided her to aftercare bed and wrapped her in a blanket. She was trembling slightly, adrenaline humming in her veins.
She looked up at me and said with her voice soft for the first time, "You're alright, old man."
I raised a brow. "Oh? Is that approval?"
She grinned. "Temporary ceasefire… don't get too cocky, Sir."
Aftercare lasted twenty minutes. She snuggled up like she hadn't spent an hour trying to assassinate my authority with sarcasm.
Jeremy sat beside her, wide-eyed and muttered, "She's… something."
"She's a brat," I said, rubbing my arm, "and apparently, I'm now a masochist."
Lisa laughed, eyes closed. "You love it."
I didn't answer, but maybe I smiled a little.
Lisa left that afternoon with some fresh bruises, and Jeremy trailing behind her like he was trying to remember how his knees worked.
He thanked me at the door then asked, "Did you fix her?"
I felt my sore arm, my aching shoulder, and said, "No… but she had fun… I survived… and I think I earned a nap… that's a win."
God help me if she comes back next weekend. God help Jeremy if she doesn't.
I wasn't expecting peace and quiet. Hell, I had played this game long enough to know better. When a newly minted Dom called me up like a kid with a broken toy, I should have known I wasn't getting a sweet little sub in pigtails and knee socks. No, what I got was a chaos gremlin in fishnets with a smile that promised disobedience and insubordination.
"Her name's Lisa… she's… um… spirited," Jeremy informed me over the phone.
Spirited? Cute word.
What he meant was: she talks back, she laughs when you scold her, and she says "Yes, Sir" like it means "Yeah, sure, whatever."
Now, she's standing in my playroom, hands on hips, smirking like she owns the place. Jeremy is sitting off to the side watching wide-eyed and pale. Poor kid looks like he's about to puke.
I give her my best Dom stare… steady… calm… full of authority. "You speak when spoken to… understand?"
She bats her lashes. "Yes, Sir."
Some Doms want quiet obedience. Me? Apparently, I signed up for the sass Olympics. I have gold-medal brat energy right here in my playroom, and yet… I'm quite intrigued.
~***~
It was Jeremy's idea. Poor kid sounded like he was drowning in the bratty attitude of his new submissive when he called me up a few days earlier.
"She won't listen," he said, frantic. "She talks back constantly. I told her to kneel, and she laughed. I asked her to call me 'Sir' and she said 'Why? You didn't earn it yet.'"
I had laughed. Not because it was funny---though it kind of was---but because I had been there. Every experienced Dom had that at least one story. The girl who flipped your protocols inside out and dared you to do something about it.
"You want me to break her?" I asked.
"No," Jeremy said quickly. "I just… I just want to watch how you handle it… I need to learn. She's not… bad… she's just… a lot."
"A lot?" I echoed. "Yeah, alright. Bring her by this weekend. I'll see what I can do."
I had no idea what I was in for.
~***~
Saturday, 2:00PM, my house. Playroom prepped, toys laid out neatly, dungeon warm, ambient light on low. Everything tidy, controlled. I like controlled, it was the cornerstone of my BDSM life style.
Then she walked in. Five-foot-nothing, pure attitude in boots and ripped fishnets. Hair dyed blue, face and lip piercings, with defiance in her voice. Eyes sharp as a blade, and twice as dangerous.
She looked around like she had been here before, like she owned the place. Jeremy followed her like a lost puppy with PTSD.
"Strip. Kneel. Face me." I said.
She gave me a slow blink. "You don't want my name first? A glass of wine? Maybe a massage?"
I arched a brow.
She grinned. "Fine… fine… keep your pants on."
With a dramatic sigh, she peeled off layers until she was down to nothing but that smirk. Then she knelt… sort of. One knee down, the other cocked sideways like she was posing for a glamour shot in Brat Quarterly.
"You call that kneeling?"
"You call that a command?" she shot back.
Jeremy flinched. I didn't. I stepped forward, crop under her chin, forcing her gaze to mine.
"Let's get one thing straight," I said, voice calm but cold. "You may belong to Jeremy, but in this room, for the next hour, you obey me… or you leave."
She tilted her head. "And if I don't leave?"
"Then you'll learn why some Doms have bad shoulders."
The first crack of the crop got her attention. Not because it hurt, but because I didn't hesitate. By the third strike, the smirk had faded. By the seventh, it was back again… stronger… more defiant.
"You hit like someone who owns a first aid kit," she said through a chuckle.
I paused. "That's because I do."
Jeremy made a noise somewhere between a whimper and a groan.
I turned Lisa over the spanking bench and secured her wrists and ankles. Her ass was already striped bright pink, but she needed more. Much more.
I switched to my favourite leather paddle.
*CRACK*
*CRACK*
*CRACK*
"Color?" I asked.
"Green," she said, "and your form's improving."
I choked back a laugh. Damn, she was funny. She was full of wit and a perfect brat attitude, such a dangerous combo. I changed the angle, focused on rhythm, and built some intensity.
By minute thirty, she was panting, but still smirking. There was some challenge still in her eyes, but also now some signs of respect.
"Want to safeword?" I asked.
"Want a cookie?" she shot back.
CRACK.
"Smartass."
"Sir Smartass," she corrected. "Show some respect."
We played longer than I had meant to. I made her count. I made her thank me for every stroke. She rolled her eyes so hard I worried about retinal damage, but she obeyed. Like a brat with exaggerated sighs and sarcastic giggles, but she finally obeyed my commands.
And Jeremy? Poor kid looked like he was watching a five-alarm fire. Horrified, fascinated, and maybe a little aroused.
Finally, I brought her down and unstrapped her, then guided her to aftercare bed and wrapped her in a blanket. She was trembling slightly, adrenaline humming in her veins.
She looked up at me and said with her voice soft for the first time, "You're alright, old man."
I raised a brow. "Oh? Is that approval?"
She grinned. "Temporary ceasefire… don't get too cocky, Sir."
Aftercare lasted twenty minutes. She snuggled up like she hadn't spent an hour trying to assassinate my authority with sarcasm.
Jeremy sat beside her, wide-eyed and muttered, "She's… something."
"She's a brat," I said, rubbing my arm, "and apparently, I'm now a masochist."
Lisa laughed, eyes closed. "You love it."
I didn't answer, but maybe I smiled a little.
~***~
Lisa left that afternoon with some fresh bruises, and Jeremy trailing behind her like he was trying to remember how his knees worked.
He thanked me at the door then asked, "Did you fix her?"
I felt my sore arm, my aching shoulder, and said, "No… but she had fun… I survived… and I think I earned a nap… that's a win."
God help me if she comes back next weekend. God help Jeremy if she doesn't.