Her eyes flew open and he grinned despite himself.

“Master! Master, I’m sorry.”

“You know,” he said, brushing a thumb over the rim of her ear, “I shouldn’t let you enjoy this at all until you can control what comes out of your mouth.”

She squirmed. Made her knees wider apart in offering. “Master, please.”

By the flood, Doxolemy was beginning to think it required more discipline to be the one in control than the other way around. He inhaled the scent of her hair and did his best to rise to the occasion.

“I should stay just as I am,” he said in tones of calm, feigned spite, “knuckle deep in this pussy of mine, and not move at all.”

“Oh no, Master.” Her brows had come together in frustration and she arched her back, threatening to break it in half, to urge his touch. Doxolemy tightened his grip in her hair.

“Slaves don’t have the privilege of saying ‘no’. Another lesson I see you need to learn.” He was enjoying this power play between them entirely too much. “I should let you stay here, bent over like this, and have you recite the entire Table of Hours before I let you feel anything again.”

The sharp intake of breath at this told him he’d found fitting material with which to work.

“Yes,” Doxolemy said in agreement with himself, “The Table of Hours. Begin.”

She said nothing, but blinked and stared at an inkwell sitting in her line of sight, as if confused. Fingers yanked from her body and a palm collided with her backside, three times in rapid succession. A healthy pink glow was blossoming over the vulnerable flesh.

“Master!”

“You imagine I jest?” The hand hovered in the air, ready to strike again, if needed. “Begin.”

Janeva swallowed to wet her throat and began to recite.