Ulysses and Sophia
The Lion's Den
---
Ulysses Green is summoned by his manager, Sophia Kalámia, who proposes a secret arrangement: a dominant relationship where he becomes her 'puppy.' In her office, Ulysses is stripped, exercised, and spanked, enduring intense humiliation and pain as Sophia tests his obedience.
---
The fluorescent hum of the department store break room was a familiar drone to Ulysses Green, but today it was cut short by the sharp, authoritative click of heels on tile. Sophia Kalámia didn’t stand in the doorway; she occupied it, her silhouette framed by the bustling corridor of the mall’s back-of-house operations. She didn’t shout. She simply crooked a finger, a gesture that demanded immediate abandonment of his half-eaten sandwich.
Ulysses wiped his mouth and stood, the legs of his chair scraping loudly against the linoleum. He followed her down the hall, past the stockroom cages where other employees were busy sorting inventory, none daring to look up from their tasks as the manager passed. Sophia’s office was at the end of the corridor, a sanctuary of thick oak and heavy glass that promised total privacy. She ushered him in and shut the door, the latch clicking with a finality that made his stomach drop.
She walked around to the other side of her dark green laminate desk, sitting in her plush pink wool swivel chair. She didn’t offer him a seat. She steepled her fingers, her eyes scanning him from his boots to the yellow uniform shirt.
"I’ve been watching you, Ulysses," Sophia began, her voice smooth, like velvet over gravel. "You work hard. But more importantly, you aren't fake."
Ulysses shifted his weight, clasping his hands behind his back. "Thank you, Ms. Kalámia."
"I hate the men here," she continued, leaning back. "Most of them are intimidated by women, but they are too cowardly to admit it. So they strut around like they’re invincible, acting all macho, hiding their insecurity and fear behind an all-too-obvious, pathetic façade. It’s a charade." She pointed a manicured nail at him. "But you. You admit you are shy. You say what you mean and you mean what you say. You think about what other people want, not just your own desires. That is rare. It is what prevents you from being a misogynist like the rest of them."
The praise was unexpected and intense, causing heat to rise up Ulysses’s neck. He looked down at his boots.
"I want to reward that," Sophia said, a slight grin playing on her lips. "I want to get to know you. Personally."
Ulysses’s head snapped up. His cheeks burned.
"We can become friends with benefits," she said, the words hanging in the air between them. "Fuck buddies. We can go out to eat, watch movies, go to the beach, or just stay in my house and play games. Obviously, it must be a secret from everyone else. Dating an employer is a scandal."
She stood up and walked around the desk, leaning against the edge right in front of him. The scent of her perfume—something like jasmine and leather—invaded his senses. "But if you decide to get to know me, there are conditions. You will have to do whatever I say. You will let me wear the pants in this relationship. Your role will be my puppy, my pet, my boy toy. I will play with you, tell you what to do, and I will dominate you in various ways."
Ulysses swallowed hard. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"Are you into kinky stuff, Ulysses?" she whispered, stepping closer so her breath tickled his ear.
"Nothing extreme," he managed to squeak out. "But... light to moderate. Yes. Like being tied up, blindfolded, tickled, wrestled..." He paused, the image flashing in his mind. "And absolutely spanked."
Sophia’s grin widened, revealing perfect white teeth. "Good." She leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Do you want to play?"
"Yes," Ulysses whispered, his voice cracking.
She pulled back, her expression instantly shifting from seductive to commanding. "Let’s see how good you are at obeying orders. Take off every stitch of clothing."
Ulysses froze. The office was a glass box, albeit tinted, and the mall was just outside those walls. But the way she looked at him—like a predator examining a particularly juicy piece of meat—made refusal impossible. His fingers trembled as they fumbled with the buttons of his gray linen pants. He slid them down, stepping out of them and kicking them aside. Next came the yellow uniform shirt, which he pulled over his head, leaving him in his boots, socks, and underwear.
He sat on the floor to undo the laces of his brown boots, pulling them off along with his white socks. When he stood back up, clad only in his tight cotton briefs, Sophia let out a sharp, barking laugh.
"Look at that," she pointed. "A lion on the front and a lion on the back. How... adorable."
Ulysses’s face felt like it was on fire. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and shoved the underwear down. His cock sprang free, and he kicked the fabric away.
Sophia’s eyes raked over him, dark with excitement. Her eyebrows raised. "You are chiseled, Ulysses. Look at that pack." She gestured to his abdomen. "And your testicles... they remind me of boiled eggs. And your penis is like a hotdog."
It was a clinical, humiliating comparison, but her approval was evident. She opened a desk drawer and pulled out a gray plastic trash bag. Without breaking eye contact, she stooped to gather his clothes—pants, shirt, boots, socks, and the lion-emblazoned underwear—shoving them all into the bag.
"I’m putting these in my car," she announced. "Don't move."
She left the office, locking the door behind her. Ulysses stood naked in the center of the room, the air conditioning raising gooseflesh on his skin. He felt exposed, vulnerable, and incredibly aroused.
When she returned, empty-handed, she didn't give him a moment to relax. "Jumping jacks," she commanded. "Now."
Ulysses began to jump. He felt ridiculous. His buttocks flexed with every movement, and his penis slapped rhythmically against his thighs. Sophia circled him like a drill sergeant, critiquing his form.
"Higher. One hundred and twenty. Keep going."
He counted them off in his head, his breath coming in ragged gasps by the time he hit one hundred and twenty. Sweat began to bead on his forehead.
"Leg holds," she ordered next. "Bring one leg up behind your back and hold it. Don't fall over."
He grabbed his ankle, balancing precariously on one leg. His thigh burned. Sophia watched him struggle, checking her watch. "Two minutes. Switch."
He groaned as he switched legs, his muscles trembling. When she finally allowed him to lower his leg, she pointed to the floor. "Curl-ups. On your back. Knees to chin. Hold for ten seconds. Alternate."
He dropped to the carpet, gasping as he pulled his knees to his chest. He held the position, his face flushing red from the exertion and the blood rushing to his head. He repeated the motion for two and a half minutes, his core aching.
"Get up," she said. "Take my chair."
He grabbed the pink wool swivel chair and looked at her, confused.
"Bring it to the front of the desk. Behind the desk is the window. I want you to stand on the chair."
He positioned the chair carefully. The window behind the desk looked out over the mall parking lot. He stepped up onto the cushion, the wool soft but unstable beneath his bare feet. He had to bounce slightly to maintain his balance, his arms windmilling at his sides.
"Stay there," she said, watching him wobble. "Now, get down. On the desk."
He climbed off the chair and onto the dark green laminate surface of her desk. It was cold against his feet.
"Fetal position," she commanded. "Now."
He curled up into a ball on the hard surface, his knees tucked into his chest. It was cramped and uncomfortable. He lay there for ten agonizing minutes, his limbs stiffening, listening to the sound of Sophia tapping her pen against a notepad.
"Stand up," she finally said. "Walk the cramps out. Back and forth."
He stood shakily on the desk and paced, feeling like a caged animal. After two and a half minutes, Sophia stood up and sat in the chair he had vacated, patting her lap.
"Ultimate test of obedience," she said softly. "Get over my lap, Ulysses."
He hesitated for only a fraction of a second before climbing down from the desk and draping himself across her thighs. His naked buttocks were raised in the air, exposed and waiting.
"Six hundred times," she said. "Or ten minutes. Whichever comes last."
She brought her right palm down hard on his left cheek. The sound was a sharp crack that echoed in the room, despite the soundproofing.
Ulysses yelped. "One," she counted.
She struck again. And again. The rhythm was relentless. She didn't warm him up; she went straight to a hard, stinging cadence. Ulysses gritted his teeth, trying to be silent, but by the fiftieth spank, he was grunting with every blow. By the hundredth, he was begging.
"Please, Ms. Kalámia," he gasped, his hands gripping the legs of her chair. "It hurts."
"Good," she said, delivering a particularly vicious swat that made his entire body jerk. "It should."
She spanked in a pattern, alternating cheeks, then focusing on the sensitive sit-spot at the bottom of his buttocks. His skin turned from pink to red to a deep, angry crimson. The heat radiating from his backside was intense.
He lost track of time. The pain became a dull, throbbing roar that overwhelmed his senses. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaking out. He tried to go to his mind's palace, to dissociate, but the sharp shock of her palm brought him back every time.
"Stop," he sobbed, his voice muffled by the fabric of her skirt. "Please, stop."
"You have a long way to go," she replied breathlessly. She was enjoying this. He could feel the excitement in her trembling thighs.
At some point, the pain plateaued into a numb, heavy throbbing. He knew his skin must be breaking. He could feel the swelling, his buttocks puffing up under her assault. He was glad for the thick wood door and the weatherstripping. He was glad the walls were reinforced. No one could hear him cry like a baby.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she stopped. She didn't say "six hundred," but she rested her hand on his back. Ulysses lay panting across her lap, his body covered in sweat, his backside feeling like it had been dipped in acid.
He rolled off her lap and onto the floor, curling up instinctively. He reached back to touch his buttocks and gasped at the sensitivity. They were purple, swollen, and hot to the touch. He looked up at Sophia, who was wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, looking down at him with a satisfied, possessive glint in her eyes.
The Cool Hand of Dominion
---
Ulysses kneels, his bruised body still throbbing from Sophia’s punishment. As she massages aloe vera into his inflamed skin, her touch shifts from soothing to deliberate, reigniting his arousal. But her control doesn’t end there—she demands he follow her every command, even in yoga poses, ensuring …
---
The cool air of the office brushed against Ulysses’s overheated, tear-streaked face, but the burning throb radiating from his buttocks was far more immediate. He lay curled on the plush pink wool rug, his body hitching with quiet, ragged sobs. The pain was a deep, purple bruise that seemed to pulse with every beat of his heart. Above him, the sharp click of heels on the dark green laminate floor signaled Sophia’s movement. She didn’t leave him to wallow for long; the dominance she craved required an aftermath as controlled as the punishment itself.
The sound of a drawer sliding open cut through the haze of his misery. A moment later, Sophia knelt beside him. The scent of her perfume—something expensive and floral—clashed with the medicinal smell of the bottle in her hand. It was a clear tube of aloe vera gel, capped and ready.
"Roll over, Ulysses," she commanded, her voice firm but lacking the earlier shout.
He hesitated, his muscles locking up in anticipation of more pain, but her hand on his shoulder guided him. Slowly, he shifted onto his stomach, wincing as his swollen cheeks made contact with the rug. He buried his face in his arms, trying to hide his shame, but he couldn't hide the vulnerable target of his suffering.
Sophia popped the cap. A second later, a cold, wet glob of gel landed directly on the inflamed center of his right buttock. The temperature shock made him gasp, his hips bucking slightly off the floor.
"Stay still," she murmured.
Her manicured nails traced the edge of the reddest area before her palm began to spread the clear gel. The sensation was electric—a confusing mix of relief and stinging over-sensitivity. Her hands were strong and sure, kneading the cooling substance into the bruised flesh with a rhythmic pressure. She worked the gel deep, her fingers sliding over the hot, raised welts left by the hairbrush.
As the initial sting faded into a dull, soothing numbness, Ulysses’s breathing began to slow. But Sophia noticed the shift. She didn't want him too comfortable. Her touch changed, drifting from the purely therapeutic to something more deliberate. Her fingers glided lower, slick with the gel, teasing the sensitive crease where his thigh met his ass. She traced the tight ring of muscle of his asshole with a slippery fingertip, circling it without penetrating, just enough to make his breath hitch in a different way.
His body betrayed him instantly. Despite the agony of the spanking, or perhaps because of the endorphins crashing through his system, his cock began to swell against the rough wool of the rug. He felt the blood rushing south, hardening his length until it pressed uncomfortably into the floor.
Sophia smiled, watching the tension return to his shoulders, though this time it was laced with arousal rather than just pain. She squeezed more gel from the bottle, working it into his left cheek now, her thumb pressing dangerously close to his perineum. She massaged him with a possessive vigor, treating his battered skin like a canvas she wasn't done painting yet.
"Look at you," she whispered, her voice dropping an octave. "Hurting so much, but still so eager to please."
She continued until the tube was flattened, squeezing the last dregs of the viscous liquid onto him. She tossed the empty plastic container into the trash can with a dull thud. Wiping her hands on a small towel from her desk, she stood up, leaving him glistening and sticky, his ass throbbing with a cooled-down ache.
"Up," she said. "Your throat must be raw."
Ulysses pushed himself up, his arms trembling. He sat back on his heels, grimacing as the movement stretched his tender skin, but careful not to put full weight on his behind. He watched Sophia walk across the room to the corner near the door. Beside the black trashcan with the gray plastic bag stood a large, 10-gallon water cooler, its plastic bubble rippling as she dispensed liquid.
She grabbed a stack of small, conical white cups. Peeling one off, she filled it with water. It was a tiny portion, barely two ounces, the kind of cup meant for a quick mouth rinse at a dentist's office. She brought it to him and held it out.
"Drink. Don't spill."
He took the cup with both hands, his fingers shaking. The water was crisp and cold, soothing the scratchy, dry burn in his throat caused by his screaming and sobbing. He tipped his head back, draining it in one swallow. It wasn't enough to quench his thirst, but it wet his palate enough to make swallowing feel less like sandpaper.
"Thank you," he croaked, his voice barely audible.
Sophia took the cup from him and crumpled it in her hand. She turned back to the cooler and peeled off another cup for herself. She filled it to the same measly level, watching the water settle. She was mindful of her bladder; she had no intention of breaking the scene for a bathroom break, and she certainly didn't want Ulysses needing one either. Control extended to every bodily function.
She sipped her water slowly, her eyes roaming over his naked, kneeling form. The lion-print briefs were long gone, leaving him completely exposed to her gaze. His dick was half-hard, curving upward against his stomach, glistening slightly with the sweat of his exertion.
"Good," she said, finishing her water and crushing the cup. She dropped it into the trash. "The worst of the heat is out of your skin. Now, we need to realign your body."
She walked to the center of the room, the dark green laminate stretching out around her. She rolled her neck, loosening up, then looked down at him with a fresh, predatory intensity.
"It's time for some yoga," Sophia announced, clasping her hands together in front of her chest. "I’m going to give you instructions on how to move your body, and you are going to do it. Every pose. Every breath. Understood?"
Ulysses nodded, wiping the last of the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. The pain in his ass was a constant reminder of her authority, a heavy weight that made him want to obey just to avoid adding to it.
"Yes, Sophia," he whispered.
"Stand up," she ordered. "Let's see how flexible you are after all that jumping around."
---
Ulysses Green is summoned by his manager, Sophia Kalámia, who proposes a secret arrangement: a dominant relationship where he becomes her 'puppy.' In her office, Ulysses is stripped, exercised, and spanked, enduring intense humiliation and pain as Sophia tests his obedience.
---
The fluorescent hum of the department store break room was a familiar drone to Ulysses Green, but today it was cut short by the sharp, authoritative click of heels on tile. Sophia Kalámia didn’t stand in the doorway; she occupied it, her silhouette framed by the bustling corridor of the mall’s back-of-house operations. She didn’t shout. She simply crooked a finger, a gesture that demanded immediate abandonment of his half-eaten sandwich.
Ulysses wiped his mouth and stood, the legs of his chair scraping loudly against the linoleum. He followed her down the hall, past the stockroom cages where other employees were busy sorting inventory, none daring to look up from their tasks as the manager passed. Sophia’s office was at the end of the corridor, a sanctuary of thick oak and heavy glass that promised total privacy. She ushered him in and shut the door, the latch clicking with a finality that made his stomach drop.
She walked around to the other side of her dark green laminate desk, sitting in her plush pink wool swivel chair. She didn’t offer him a seat. She steepled her fingers, her eyes scanning him from his boots to the yellow uniform shirt.
"I’ve been watching you, Ulysses," Sophia began, her voice smooth, like velvet over gravel. "You work hard. But more importantly, you aren't fake."
Ulysses shifted his weight, clasping his hands behind his back. "Thank you, Ms. Kalámia."
"I hate the men here," she continued, leaning back. "Most of them are intimidated by women, but they are too cowardly to admit it. So they strut around like they’re invincible, acting all macho, hiding their insecurity and fear behind an all-too-obvious, pathetic façade. It’s a charade." She pointed a manicured nail at him. "But you. You admit you are shy. You say what you mean and you mean what you say. You think about what other people want, not just your own desires. That is rare. It is what prevents you from being a misogynist like the rest of them."
The praise was unexpected and intense, causing heat to rise up Ulysses’s neck. He looked down at his boots.
"I want to reward that," Sophia said, a slight grin playing on her lips. "I want to get to know you. Personally."
Ulysses’s head snapped up. His cheeks burned.
"We can become friends with benefits," she said, the words hanging in the air between them. "Fuck buddies. We can go out to eat, watch movies, go to the beach, or just stay in my house and play games. Obviously, it must be a secret from everyone else. Dating an employer is a scandal."
She stood up and walked around the desk, leaning against the edge right in front of him. The scent of her perfume—something like jasmine and leather—invaded his senses. "But if you decide to get to know me, there are conditions. You will have to do whatever I say. You will let me wear the pants in this relationship. Your role will be my puppy, my pet, my boy toy. I will play with you, tell you what to do, and I will dominate you in various ways."
Ulysses swallowed hard. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"Are you into kinky stuff, Ulysses?" she whispered, stepping closer so her breath tickled his ear.
"Nothing extreme," he managed to squeak out. "But... light to moderate. Yes. Like being tied up, blindfolded, tickled, wrestled..." He paused, the image flashing in his mind. "And absolutely spanked."
Sophia’s grin widened, revealing perfect white teeth. "Good." She leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Do you want to play?"
"Yes," Ulysses whispered, his voice cracking.
She pulled back, her expression instantly shifting from seductive to commanding. "Let’s see how good you are at obeying orders. Take off every stitch of clothing."
Ulysses froze. The office was a glass box, albeit tinted, and the mall was just outside those walls. But the way she looked at him—like a predator examining a particularly juicy piece of meat—made refusal impossible. His fingers trembled as they fumbled with the buttons of his gray linen pants. He slid them down, stepping out of them and kicking them aside. Next came the yellow uniform shirt, which he pulled over his head, leaving him in his boots, socks, and underwear.
He sat on the floor to undo the laces of his brown boots, pulling them off along with his white socks. When he stood back up, clad only in his tight cotton briefs, Sophia let out a sharp, barking laugh.
"Look at that," she pointed. "A lion on the front and a lion on the back. How... adorable."
Ulysses’s face felt like it was on fire. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and shoved the underwear down. His cock sprang free, and he kicked the fabric away.
Sophia’s eyes raked over him, dark with excitement. Her eyebrows raised. "You are chiseled, Ulysses. Look at that pack." She gestured to his abdomen. "And your testicles... they remind me of boiled eggs. And your penis is like a hotdog."
It was a clinical, humiliating comparison, but her approval was evident. She opened a desk drawer and pulled out a gray plastic trash bag. Without breaking eye contact, she stooped to gather his clothes—pants, shirt, boots, socks, and the lion-emblazoned underwear—shoving them all into the bag.
"I’m putting these in my car," she announced. "Don't move."
She left the office, locking the door behind her. Ulysses stood naked in the center of the room, the air conditioning raising gooseflesh on his skin. He felt exposed, vulnerable, and incredibly aroused.
When she returned, empty-handed, she didn't give him a moment to relax. "Jumping jacks," she commanded. "Now."
Ulysses began to jump. He felt ridiculous. His buttocks flexed with every movement, and his penis slapped rhythmically against his thighs. Sophia circled him like a drill sergeant, critiquing his form.
"Higher. One hundred and twenty. Keep going."
He counted them off in his head, his breath coming in ragged gasps by the time he hit one hundred and twenty. Sweat began to bead on his forehead.
"Leg holds," she ordered next. "Bring one leg up behind your back and hold it. Don't fall over."
He grabbed his ankle, balancing precariously on one leg. His thigh burned. Sophia watched him struggle, checking her watch. "Two minutes. Switch."
He groaned as he switched legs, his muscles trembling. When she finally allowed him to lower his leg, she pointed to the floor. "Curl-ups. On your back. Knees to chin. Hold for ten seconds. Alternate."
He dropped to the carpet, gasping as he pulled his knees to his chest. He held the position, his face flushing red from the exertion and the blood rushing to his head. He repeated the motion for two and a half minutes, his core aching.
"Get up," she said. "Take my chair."
He grabbed the pink wool swivel chair and looked at her, confused.
"Bring it to the front of the desk. Behind the desk is the window. I want you to stand on the chair."
He positioned the chair carefully. The window behind the desk looked out over the mall parking lot. He stepped up onto the cushion, the wool soft but unstable beneath his bare feet. He had to bounce slightly to maintain his balance, his arms windmilling at his sides.
"Stay there," she said, watching him wobble. "Now, get down. On the desk."
He climbed off the chair and onto the dark green laminate surface of her desk. It was cold against his feet.
"Fetal position," she commanded. "Now."
He curled up into a ball on the hard surface, his knees tucked into his chest. It was cramped and uncomfortable. He lay there for ten agonizing minutes, his limbs stiffening, listening to the sound of Sophia tapping her pen against a notepad.
"Stand up," she finally said. "Walk the cramps out. Back and forth."
He stood shakily on the desk and paced, feeling like a caged animal. After two and a half minutes, Sophia stood up and sat in the chair he had vacated, patting her lap.
"Ultimate test of obedience," she said softly. "Get over my lap, Ulysses."
He hesitated for only a fraction of a second before climbing down from the desk and draping himself across her thighs. His naked buttocks were raised in the air, exposed and waiting.
"Six hundred times," she said. "Or ten minutes. Whichever comes last."
She brought her right palm down hard on his left cheek. The sound was a sharp crack that echoed in the room, despite the soundproofing.
Ulysses yelped. "One," she counted.
She struck again. And again. The rhythm was relentless. She didn't warm him up; she went straight to a hard, stinging cadence. Ulysses gritted his teeth, trying to be silent, but by the fiftieth spank, he was grunting with every blow. By the hundredth, he was begging.
"Please, Ms. Kalámia," he gasped, his hands gripping the legs of her chair. "It hurts."
"Good," she said, delivering a particularly vicious swat that made his entire body jerk. "It should."
She spanked in a pattern, alternating cheeks, then focusing on the sensitive sit-spot at the bottom of his buttocks. His skin turned from pink to red to a deep, angry crimson. The heat radiating from his backside was intense.
He lost track of time. The pain became a dull, throbbing roar that overwhelmed his senses. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears leaking out. He tried to go to his mind's palace, to dissociate, but the sharp shock of her palm brought him back every time.
"Stop," he sobbed, his voice muffled by the fabric of her skirt. "Please, stop."
"You have a long way to go," she replied breathlessly. She was enjoying this. He could feel the excitement in her trembling thighs.
At some point, the pain plateaued into a numb, heavy throbbing. He knew his skin must be breaking. He could feel the swelling, his buttocks puffing up under her assault. He was glad for the thick wood door and the weatherstripping. He was glad the walls were reinforced. No one could hear him cry like a baby.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she stopped. She didn't say "six hundred," but she rested her hand on his back. Ulysses lay panting across her lap, his body covered in sweat, his backside feeling like it had been dipped in acid.
He rolled off her lap and onto the floor, curling up instinctively. He reached back to touch his buttocks and gasped at the sensitivity. They were purple, swollen, and hot to the touch. He looked up at Sophia, who was wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, looking down at him with a satisfied, possessive glint in her eyes.
The Cool Hand of Dominion
---
Ulysses kneels, his bruised body still throbbing from Sophia’s punishment. As she massages aloe vera into his inflamed skin, her touch shifts from soothing to deliberate, reigniting his arousal. But her control doesn’t end there—she demands he follow her every command, even in yoga poses, ensuring …
---
The cool air of the office brushed against Ulysses’s overheated, tear-streaked face, but the burning throb radiating from his buttocks was far more immediate. He lay curled on the plush pink wool rug, his body hitching with quiet, ragged sobs. The pain was a deep, purple bruise that seemed to pulse with every beat of his heart. Above him, the sharp click of heels on the dark green laminate floor signaled Sophia’s movement. She didn’t leave him to wallow for long; the dominance she craved required an aftermath as controlled as the punishment itself.
The sound of a drawer sliding open cut through the haze of his misery. A moment later, Sophia knelt beside him. The scent of her perfume—something expensive and floral—clashed with the medicinal smell of the bottle in her hand. It was a clear tube of aloe vera gel, capped and ready.
"Roll over, Ulysses," she commanded, her voice firm but lacking the earlier shout.
He hesitated, his muscles locking up in anticipation of more pain, but her hand on his shoulder guided him. Slowly, he shifted onto his stomach, wincing as his swollen cheeks made contact with the rug. He buried his face in his arms, trying to hide his shame, but he couldn't hide the vulnerable target of his suffering.
Sophia popped the cap. A second later, a cold, wet glob of gel landed directly on the inflamed center of his right buttock. The temperature shock made him gasp, his hips bucking slightly off the floor.
"Stay still," she murmured.
Her manicured nails traced the edge of the reddest area before her palm began to spread the clear gel. The sensation was electric—a confusing mix of relief and stinging over-sensitivity. Her hands were strong and sure, kneading the cooling substance into the bruised flesh with a rhythmic pressure. She worked the gel deep, her fingers sliding over the hot, raised welts left by the hairbrush.
As the initial sting faded into a dull, soothing numbness, Ulysses’s breathing began to slow. But Sophia noticed the shift. She didn't want him too comfortable. Her touch changed, drifting from the purely therapeutic to something more deliberate. Her fingers glided lower, slick with the gel, teasing the sensitive crease where his thigh met his ass. She traced the tight ring of muscle of his asshole with a slippery fingertip, circling it without penetrating, just enough to make his breath hitch in a different way.
His body betrayed him instantly. Despite the agony of the spanking, or perhaps because of the endorphins crashing through his system, his cock began to swell against the rough wool of the rug. He felt the blood rushing south, hardening his length until it pressed uncomfortably into the floor.
Sophia smiled, watching the tension return to his shoulders, though this time it was laced with arousal rather than just pain. She squeezed more gel from the bottle, working it into his left cheek now, her thumb pressing dangerously close to his perineum. She massaged him with a possessive vigor, treating his battered skin like a canvas she wasn't done painting yet.
"Look at you," she whispered, her voice dropping an octave. "Hurting so much, but still so eager to please."
She continued until the tube was flattened, squeezing the last dregs of the viscous liquid onto him. She tossed the empty plastic container into the trash can with a dull thud. Wiping her hands on a small towel from her desk, she stood up, leaving him glistening and sticky, his ass throbbing with a cooled-down ache.
"Up," she said. "Your throat must be raw."
Ulysses pushed himself up, his arms trembling. He sat back on his heels, grimacing as the movement stretched his tender skin, but careful not to put full weight on his behind. He watched Sophia walk across the room to the corner near the door. Beside the black trashcan with the gray plastic bag stood a large, 10-gallon water cooler, its plastic bubble rippling as she dispensed liquid.
She grabbed a stack of small, conical white cups. Peeling one off, she filled it with water. It was a tiny portion, barely two ounces, the kind of cup meant for a quick mouth rinse at a dentist's office. She brought it to him and held it out.
"Drink. Don't spill."
He took the cup with both hands, his fingers shaking. The water was crisp and cold, soothing the scratchy, dry burn in his throat caused by his screaming and sobbing. He tipped his head back, draining it in one swallow. It wasn't enough to quench his thirst, but it wet his palate enough to make swallowing feel less like sandpaper.
"Thank you," he croaked, his voice barely audible.
Sophia took the cup from him and crumpled it in her hand. She turned back to the cooler and peeled off another cup for herself. She filled it to the same measly level, watching the water settle. She was mindful of her bladder; she had no intention of breaking the scene for a bathroom break, and she certainly didn't want Ulysses needing one either. Control extended to every bodily function.
She sipped her water slowly, her eyes roaming over his naked, kneeling form. The lion-print briefs were long gone, leaving him completely exposed to her gaze. His dick was half-hard, curving upward against his stomach, glistening slightly with the sweat of his exertion.
"Good," she said, finishing her water and crushing the cup. She dropped it into the trash. "The worst of the heat is out of your skin. Now, we need to realign your body."
She walked to the center of the room, the dark green laminate stretching out around her. She rolled her neck, loosening up, then looked down at him with a fresh, predatory intensity.
"It's time for some yoga," Sophia announced, clasping her hands together in front of her chest. "I’m going to give you instructions on how to move your body, and you are going to do it. Every pose. Every breath. Understood?"
Ulysses nodded, wiping the last of the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. The pain in his ass was a constant reminder of her authority, a heavy weight that made him want to obey just to avoid adding to it.
"Yes, Sophia," he whispered.
"Stand up," she ordered. "Let's see how flexible you are after all that jumping around."
31-35, M