It started with a rule.
A small one.
"Don't tease me in public," Jesse had said, tone low and serious, after tying me up and wrecking me against the mattress just two nights ago.
I'd said yes, Sir with lips swollen from kissing.
And then today?
I bent over a crate in the garage, made sure he had a full view of my ass in tight jeans, and licked a popsicle in front of the crew like I was auditioning for sin.
I felt him watching.
I wanted him to snap.
And I got what I wanted.
---
After hours.
The shop empty.
Lights low.
He grabbed my wrist and dragged me into the breakroom like a storm barely contained.
He didn't yell.
Didn't growl.
Just locked the door, turned slowly, and said:
"You remember the rule?"
I smirked. "Which one?"
Wrong answer.
He was on me in seconds. Fast. Methodical. One hand gripping my jaw, the other grabbing the belt from his waistband like it was a second language he hadn't spoken in years.
"You disobeyed to get a reaction," Jesse murmured, voice eerily calm. "That's not how this works."
My pulse thundered.
"Do you want to stop?"
I shook my head.
"Say it."
"No, Sir."
He nodded once.
"Pants down. Hands on the wall. Count for me."
I swallowed hard and turned around.
The sound of leather sliding through his hand made my knees weak.
The first slap of the belt across my ass burned.
"One," I gasped.
He didn't speak.
Just hit again.
Harder.
"Two."
By the sixth strike, I was shaking. My cock painfully hard. My chest rising too fast.
By ten, I was dizzy with the sharp, stinging ache of it—and the heat curling deep inside me like submission was a drug I'd just discovered.
When he stopped, I was panting. Bare. Raw.
But I didn't want it to end.
He stepped behind me, hand sliding over the welted skin. Slow. Careful. Almost tender.
"You're mine," he whispered. "And mine means obedient. Not reckless."
"Yes, Sir."
His hand slipped between my thighs. Fingers teasing my aching cock.
"But when you earn it—" he said, mouth brushing the back of my neck, "—I'll let you come like you're my favorite thing in the world."
I whimpered.
He pulled me back against his chest and stroked me once—slow, firm, unrelenting—until I came with his name on my lips like a confession.
---
Later, in the dark, lying naked across his bed, I whispered:
"I like being yours."
Jesse didn't say anything.
But his hand slid into my hair, fingers threading there like they belonged.
Like I belonged.