"That's it."

"All right. Then let this be a lesson. Why am I spanking you?"

"Because I called you a bastard."

He laughed. "No, no, I didn't mean the fake reason, the scene reason. What's the real reason I'm spanking you?"

"Um-" This had to be some kind of trick question.

"I'm spanking you, really, because you have a gorgeous arse and I want to. I like spanking women. I like feeling how you react. I'm a dom and I like to inflict pleasure and pain. It's that simple."

"I see. Do I have to count them?"

"No. I'll stop when I feel like it."

And with that he began to swat me on the ass. At first the swats were light, and they hurt less than I expected them to, but as he went on and on with a steady rhythm my skin heated up and got more sensitive. That was when he started hitting harder. Soon I was squealing and kicking my legs on each smack. All he did was keep his other hand between my shoulder blades, keeping me in place.

And then he stopped. His hand went back to caressing my cheeks in a circle. I shuddered under the gentleness of that touch.

Then his hand slipped between my legs. "Wet. As I predicted."

He slid one finger into me and I gasped at the sparks of pleasure shooting through my body.

He finger-fucked me a few times, then pulled his hand free. "It is absolutely maddening that I can't fuck you. I'm sure Vanette knew it would be. Up. Go clean up a little and we'll go to breakfast."

In the hotel restaurant, Damon seemed moody and distracted as we sat near the wide windows overlooking the plaza in front of the train station. After a cup of strong coffee, though, he seemed to revive.

"So a spanking wasn't actually better than coffee," I teased.

"I meant for you, not me," he said, but smiled. "I am not truly awake, or human, until I've had my first cup. Now. I have to rethink my plan for what to do with you today."

"You do?"

"Yes. My plan revolved entirely around gradually wearing down your aversion to sexual pleasure. You pretty much threw that out the window within the first minute yesterday." His hair was glossy black in the morning sun. We were sitting across the small table from each other. "So I need something else to challenge you with."

"Like what?"

"You're reasonably obedient when I insist on it, so I don't think there's much challenge there. I suppose I could put you through some tests of physical endurance, but they get boring for me, and I dislike being bored." He yawned. "What's your least favorite thing?"

Getting dumped in the middle of a party after the best sex of your life, I thought, but didn't say. That's my least favorite thing ever. "You mean like what toy did I like least?"

"Or activity."

I had to think about that. I hadn't really liked the Wartenberg wheel but I didn't hate it. The paddle had been kind of fun. The riding crop hurt, but the way he used it was thrilling. Activity? Going out in public, wearing Ben Wa balls, those things were fine.

Oh, I knew what I was going to say. I glanced back to make sure a waiter wasn't about to appear over my shoulder. "Once he made me go a whole week without an orgasm."

Damon cocked his head. "Was that a very long time for you?"

"Well, he insisted on seeing me every day, and, you know, playing with me and bringing me to the edge, but not letting me come."

"An entire week? Every day?"

"Sometimes more than once a day."

"That is dedication to training," he said with a nod. "So what was it you didn't like?"

"The delayed gratification, I guess."

"You don't sound sure."

"Well, I was still getting plenty of attention, and seeing a lot of him, and it was...It was very hot, in its way. It was just a long time. You asked what my least favorite thing was. That's what it was."

"Huh. Then it sounds like you liked what he did to you, no matter what he did."

"I guess. Every time we tried something new, I liked it." I wasn't about to tell him about how I'd discovered the hard way that James was larger than my body was ready for. Besides, we'd gotten past that and that wasn't the sort of thing Damon was after, anyway.

"Then either he was very good at reading you and predicting your tastes, or you were exceptionally compatible," Damon said with a small frown. "No wonder you're so stuck on this fellow."

Or maybe it's because I'm so in love with him, anything he did felt wonderful. I shrugged.

"Let's start over," Damon said suddenly, tossing his napkin onto the table.

"What?"

"I'm going to go back upstairs. Follow me in half an hour." He stood. "Let's start again."

"If you say so."

"Indeed, my dear, it is my job to say so." He grinned like a Cheshire cat, then disappeared.

The waitress brought fresh tea and asked if I wanted a copy of the newspaper. I thanked her and told her no. I'd rather read it on my phone.

I looked up more details about York and checked my e-mail to see if Martindale had e-mailed me back about the days off I would need. The dear man had answered not only saying that I could take the days, but he'd booked me a guesthouse, too. Apparently he wanted me to find James badly enough to lend some assistance.

A half hour was done quickly, and I signed the check to the room and went back upstairs.

This time I wasn't surprised to find a small envelope on the door. The note inside read: Come into the room and remove your clothes. You will find a notepad on the desk. You are to write three things you deserve to be punished for. Then go stand in the corner.

Well, that's different, I thought. I went in and saw the bathroom door was closed. He must have been in there. I considered writing three fake things, as if it were a schoolgirl thing, like "didn't do my homework, lied about my dog eating it, talking in class." But that wasn't what he was after, I figured. Like with this morning's question about it, he didn't want the "scene" answer. He wanted the real answer.

I picked up the pen and sat down at the desk, the contoured leather of the chair feeling cool to my bare bottom. How to start? What to write? To get myself going, I wrote at the top of the page: Three Things Karina Deserves to Be Punished For I wrote a number one and circled it. If I were writing this list for James, what would it say on it? Well, I had already been reporting via text all the little white lies I'd told. There hadn't been many, but there were a few.

For the little lies I told the customs agent and other people, trying to make my way easier, when I had promised not to lie anymore.

Okay, that was one. What was number two? Was there something else I actually felt sorry for?

For not reporting my advisor for sexual harassment and attempted assault earlier. I might've saved other women some trouble.

I closed my eyes then. Think, Karina. What else would you want James's forgiveness for? Well, of course I wanted him to forgive me for forcing him to tell me his name, but I sure as hell didn't feel I deserved to be punished for that. What did I feel sorry over, though? Or what did I want to feel sorry about?

An idea struck me suddenly. Oh. Did that make sense? Maybe it didn't have to make sense. I wrote: For letting Mr. George touch me and give me pleasure and make me come.

My hand was shaking when I put down the pen. I hurried to the obvious corner that had been cleared of furniture and hunched with my face in my hands. What the hell was I doing here?

I heard the bathroom door creak and I sucked in a breath as I heard him moving closer. The paper on the desk rustled.

When he was standing directly behind me, he spoke. "You're a very confused woman."

I could only nod.

"And I would like to smack the man who confused you this much. Since he's not here, though, I'll have to settle for punishing you instead. You know what to say."

"Yes, Mr. George." It came out a whisper because my throat was so tight.

"Good. Now let's see. I can see why you might feel guilty over not reporting the creep. Now, the lying thing. That was something your former master told you?"

I wanted to argue that I hadn't called him master, that we didn't use titles, but this wasn't the place for that. "Yes, Mr. George."

"And you're trying to comply with it, even though it's difficult. And even though he's no longer around."

"Yes."

"Very well. Let's clear your slate then. Come and put your hands on this chair."

I turned and saw he was dressed in a full three-piece suit, his tie smartly knotted, and I swallowed hard. He had no way to know that was how James dressed. It had to be a coincidence. But it made me feel even weaker in the knees than I did.

I leaned over to put my hands where he showed me, gripping the seat of one of the dining chairs. Then he displayed a long, slender piece of plastic, flexing it slightly between his hands. If it hadn't been bright red it would have looked like a shade pull.

"Canes were traditionally made from rattan," he said. "But the synthetic ones last longer. Head down and tell me how many lies you think you've told."

"Total?" I asked.

"No. How many you think you need to be punished for."

"Oh. Ten or twelve for sure. Maybe as many as twenty over the past couple of months."

"Let's do twenty to be sure your slate is wiped clean. Have you been caned before, Karina?"

"Is it like the riding crop?"

"Not exactly. The way this works is I deliver the punishment, and you keep the count and thank me after each one. If you mess up the count, you go back to the beginning."

"That is devious."

"These things usually are." He chuckled and rubbed the tip of the cane against my ass. "Now, if you are ready, you know what to say."

"Yes, Mr. George."

He cleared his throat, and then a second later, a burning stripe of pain cut across my ass. I clamped down on the noise I wanted to make, waiting for the pain to dissipate. When it did, I was panting and immediately thinking, wait, nineteen more of these?

"What do you say?"

Right. "Thank you, Mr. George. Th-that was one. Nineteen to go."

He smoothed his hand over where he had struck and it felt wonderful. He sounded amused. "The traditional way to do it is, 'One. Thank you, sir. May I have another.'"

That sounded sort of familiar. There had been a man saying it at that party James had taken me to. "Should I call you 'sir,' Mr. George?" I asked, remembering what Vanette had said. "And do you prefer the traditional way?"

"You know what, Karina? I don't prefer the traditional way. I'm interested to see how you do. And I love it when you call me 'sir.' It's like every time you say the word, you lick my cock."

He stepped back again and I knew the next one was coming. There was a second of silence and then bam, a new line of fire on my ass. He didn't seem to mind that I wiggled as if that would make the pain lessen faster.

"Two, sir, and eighteen to go," I said. "Thank you, Mr. George."

"Good," he said, and did not wait to hit me a third time.

"Three! Thank you, Mr. George." I squeezed my legs together. Oh, it hurt. "Seventeen to go."

He hit me again and I gasped a little as I said, "Four, M-Mr. George! Sixteen to go! Ahhhh.... ah, thank you!"

He stepped close and rubbed my inflamed skin again. "You know, if you're not ready for the next one yet, you can take longer to answer."

"But isn't that cheating?"

"I don't think it is, dear. I think the point of having you count is to give you a chance to set the pace. If I think you're going too slowly, I'll harangue you about it."

"Oh. How was I supposed to know that?" I asked.

"Well, since it wasn't obvious to you, that's why I'm telling you. If you're worried that you're taking too much control of your own punishment, don't worry. I can always gag you if I want to. Remember that."

"Yes, sir." It was an odd sort of back-and-forth, but I guess it made a kind of sense. "I'm ready for number five, sir."

He said nothing before delivering it, and this time I heard the cane cut through the air. I think that meant he hit me harder. This time I screamed. And it took me several breaths before I was ready to say, "Five, thank you, sir. Fifteen to go. I'm ready for another."

The next one wasn't as hard, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt. The next few, in fact, felt like he backed off a little, and I didn't have to scream on each one. I counted them off dutifully until I got to "Ten, sir, and ten to go."

Instead of caressing me with his hand now, he ran the tip of the cane up and down the backs of my legs and across my shoulders. "You're doing very well. Ten is often as many as a punishment might be for."

"But we said twenty?" I squeaked.

"Yes, we said twenty, so we should see it through. I'm going to put a few of these down your thighs, which I imagine will mean no miniskirts or short-shorts for you for a few days, unless you want to have to explain the welts."

"Yes, Mr. George."

The next five he did like a ladder climbing up the backs of my thighs until he had reached my ass again, with me dutifully counting each one. It hurt differently on my legs from my butt. I preferred it on my ass.

"Five to go, sir." I gasped.