Alpha Dom and His Human Surrogate - Season 1 Episode 71

Ella

Every instinct I possess is telling me to get away from Sinclair as fast as I can, but he catches me around the waist before I can move two feet. I know I’ve made a terrible mistake, and I don’t have any idea where the impulse to strike him came from. I’ve never raised a hand against anyone in my life, and certainly not a man as dangerous as Sinclair – a predator who could snap me up in one bite.

When I’m yanked to a stop in his arms, I panic. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it, I don’t know what happened.” I exclaim, squirming despite my injuries. He lugs me up against his chest, keeping my body flush against him.

Sinclair emits a dark chuckle, and I realize he hasn’t lost his temper. Far from it, he’s entirely in control, but he’s also not going to let me get away with hitting him. “Tsk, sweet Ella, I know exactly what happened.” He purrs, “but you’re not sorry – not yet anyway.” His lips graze my ear, his deep voice turning my insides to jelly, “But you will be.”

“Dominic please–” I beg, squirming in his arms, desperately trying to free myself from his grasp.

“I warned you, little one. This was your last strike.” He answers co olly, “Now stop wriggling before you hurt yourself.”

At once I’m struck by the difference I feel being trapped in his arms. If one of those rogues had caught me, I would have been too afraid to anger them to risk rebelling. After all, I’ve experienced the dreadful paralysis that occurs when you’re too terrified to fight back against an attacker more than once. Yet I feel no such fear with Sinclair. I know he means to punish me, and yet I feel completely safe.

The ball gown is stripped from my body, and Sinclair settles on the bed, laying my body face down over his lap. “What are you doing?” I whimper, trying to rear up.

One of Sinclair’s ma*sive palms settles at the base of my spine, holding me in place as his free hand traces the curve of my bare bottom. “What do you think I’m doing?” He inquires, sounding as though he’s taking far too much pleasure in this.

“You can’t be serious!” I protest, “This is barbaric! I’m not a child!”

“You’re right.” Sinclair croons, still grazing his fingers over my skin and making the bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs swell and plump with rushing blood. “you’re not a child, which means you should know better than to throw tantrums and strike people.”

“But I’m pregnant,” I remind him, hoping he’ll take mercy. “You could hurt the baby.”

“Trust me sweetheart, if sp ankings harmed unborn pups my kind would have died out a long time ago.” Sinclair drawls, ma*saging the tense muscles of my lower back. “Breeding she-wolves need to feel their mate’s dominance more than anyone else.”

The word “sp anking” echoes in my mind, almost as if it’s some foreign term from another language. I know exactly what it means, but it seems impossible that I could truly be in this predicament. I’ve known plenty of punishments in my time, but none like this. None from someone who actually cares about me, and none that excite me despite my better judgment.

“Well that’s fine for you and your twisted were-friends, but I’m not into that sort of thing!” I insist, trying to ignore the flames engulfing my body. I can feel myself growing wet already, and I’m horrified when Sinclair scents the air, a satisfied rumble sounding in his chest. Surely he can’t smell my arousal? Right?

“Is that the story you want to stick with, Ella?” Sinclair questions, amusement heavy in his velvety tones as his fingers dip dangerously close to my swollen S**. No, no, no. I think. It’s too embarra*sing! I’m sure I’ve never been this turned on in my life – but what does that say about me? What’s wrong with me that I like this?

I whine, trying to jerk out of his reach. “This isn’t fair, you’re not the boss of me!” Why am I still provoking him? Why am I not begging for mercy?

“We’ll just see about that.” Sinclair intones, still ma*saging my backside. Belatedly I realize he’s warming my skin, preparing me for his discipline. When the first swat finally lands, I rear up, crying out in protest. I’m sure Sinclair is only using a fraction of his strength, but it still hurts. Even so, I know my reaction is more outrage than actual pain.

I kick my legs and beat my fists against Sinclair’s thighs, but he easily restrains me. This is so confusing, how can I feel safer being confined by his strong arms than I did when I was lashing out wildly? He lands another swat, on the opposite cheek this time – spreading the heat over my raised buttocks equally. He starts slowly, continuing to warm my skin until I’m accustomed to the sting, and then increasing his efforts.

I fight like a hellcat, furious that he’s doing this and yet more turned on than I can ever remember being. Something is wrong with me. I decide. Only someone deeply disturbed would enjoy this. He’s actually sp anking me, like I’m a naughty child instead of the mother of his baby. The worst part is his deliciously dirty words, telling me what a bad girl I’ve been, scolding me for my misbehavior and yet praising my arousal – telling me how natural it is, how delicious I smell.

He doesn’t let up until I stop trying to escape his hold, until I submit to his discipline and let go of my own control . When his relentless swats finally slow, I catch myself undulating, raising my bottom to meet his hand. With considerable effort, I force myself to still. “Is it over?” I ask miserably, trying to sound as pitiful as possible.

“On any other occasion it would be,” Sinclair shares, sounding resigned now. “But you need to cry, Ella. You need to deal with the attack.”

“But I don’t want to.” I moan, feeling very immature now.

“It’s okay, I’m going to help you.” Sinclair promises, stroking my spine. “And afterwards I promise I’ll make you feel good.”

“No, please… I don’t want to cry.” I confess, my voice very small now.

“Why not?” Sinclair asks. “What’s so terrible about crying?”

Sniffling, I pluck up the courage to tell him my fears. After all – the man just sp anked me, if I can be honest with anyone, it’s him. “I’m afraid if I start I won’t be able to stop. I don’t want to hurt.”

Sinclair clucks sympathetically, clearly understanding that I’m not talking about physical pain. “I’ll be with you the whole time.” He promises. “I’m not going to let you face it alone.”

I try to resist my instincts to submit as long as I can, holding myself tense as the swats rain down on my upturned bottom, growing sharper and more delectable with every volley. I might have been able to resist if it weren’t for Sinclair’s encouragement. Now instead of telling me how naughty I’ve been he keeps insisting it’s alright, that I’m safe and he’ll take care of me.

It doesn’t take much then, a few good swats and I collapse into Sinclair’s arms, sobbing out my anguish into his legs until he pulls me up into his lap. I wince and hiss when my sore backside meets with his thighs, but he kisses and croons and rocks me as I work through the pain, and soon I forget about the indignity and outrage of my sp anking.

“I’m sorry I was such a brat.” I confess, nuzzling my face against his chest and breathing in his scent.

“I love your every mood.” Sinclair a*sures me, “you never need to apologize for being yourself.”

I shake my head. “When you say things like that I think you’re too good to be true.” I admit. “I don’t trust it.”

“That’s okay.” Sinclair affirms. “I’m not going to be scared off because you’re a bit skittish, Ella. You’re giving me an heir – I’m in this for the long haul.”

My heart sinks at the reminder he’s only doing this because I’m carrying his son, but I feel so cozy in Sinclair’s arms that I can’t bring myself to protest. He continues petting and cuddling me until my tears slow, though my rear end is still on fire. I’ve never known so many conflicting feelings.

I’ve been thoroughly punished, confronted my trauma and grief, and yet I’m also beside myself with lust. In fact, my desire is the only thing Sinclair has yet to satisfy, and I’m all too aware he vowed to take care of that as well.

As if he’s reading my mind, Sinclair slides his hand between my legs, feeling my sodden core and purring with approval. “Now, would you like me to make you feel good?”