On the sixth smack, those soft lips finally parted, and she lifted her head slightly. "I-isn't that enough already?" she breathed out, then added with that stubborn edge, "I get it, okay? You made your point."
Even bent over my lap, even with her porcelain skin flushed that delicious shade of pink and her breathing coming in short gasps, Sakura couldn't quite bring herself to fully submit. Even as those incredible thighs trembled slightly from the tension, even as that ridiculous excuse for a skirt had ridden up to give me an even better view of how those shorts molded to every curve.
"What are you talking about?" I looked at her with feigned confusion, letting my hand rest possessively on her perfectly shaped rear. "You haven't apologized yet," I said, punctuating my words by giving her firm ass a deliberate squeeze.
The reaction was immediate and electric—one sandaled foot kicked up behind, while the other braced hard against the ground, and she whipped her head around to fix me with the most indignant glare I'd ever seen.
Her flushed face was absolutely tantalizing like this, shame and anger warring across those delicate features, making her emerald eyes practically glow with fury. The way her pink hair framed her face, slightly mussed from our struggle, only made her look more enticing.
I want to kiss her, strip her, fuck her.
I held her glare steadily as I breathed through my nose, my hand beginning to move in slow, circles across her ass. "This will be over when you've learned your lesson," I said calmly, daring her to say something about my obvious fondling.
She stared at me for a long moment, and I could practically see the internal battle playing out behind those beautiful eyes. Finally, she turned her head forward with a sharp click of her tongue, muttering under her breath, "Pervert."
Interesting.
Conditioning her to my touch was bearing fruits, but I wasn't delusional enough to believe that was all.
She was ignoring my increasingly bold touching for what I suspected were purely practical reasons—acknowledging it would mean having to do something about it, and doing something about it might escalate this situation beyond her control. Better to pretend it wasn't happening and hope I'd eventually stop.
Whatever her reasoning, she'd just given me carte blanche to advance further. And if she didn't mind me fondling her ass—though she obviously did mind—then I just had to find other buttons to press.
My hand grew decidedly bolder, exploring the perfect curves of her ass with barely concealed hunger. That ridiculous excuse for a pink skirt had ridden up completely now, bunched at her waist and leaving nothing to the imagination. Through those criminally tight shorts, I could see the clear outline of her panties beneath — a sight that sent my pulse racing and made my mouth go dry with want.
The feel of her ass was absolutely intoxicating — like silk-wrapped steel, soft as fresh cream yet firm as a ripe peach. It was firmer than a down pillow but softer than marble, yielding yet resilient under my exploring fingers. Like the perfect balance between a cloud and carved alabaster, warm and inviting yet toned from years of training.
I was half a second from writing a haiku about her ass. And I didn't even like poetry.
Sakura began shifting restlessly, her gloveless and delicate fingers gripping the sheets, small huffs of breath escaping those pink lips. I ignored her obvious discomfort, pressing my other hand against the small of her back to keep her positioned exactly where I wanted her on my lap.
The graceful curve of her spine was visible through her tight top, and I couldn't help but notice how her pale skin seemed to glow.
Licking my lips, I raised my hand for another strike. "You should start apologizing for not listening to your commander's orders." My palm connected with her perfect ass with another satisfying crack.
Still, the girl remained silent.
I licked my lips again, feeling my blood boil with a mixture of arousal and frustration.
Her stubbornness and headstrong nature were both infuriating and incredibly arousing. While I would love to slowly break that defiant spirit apart and strip her of that prideful resistance at my own pace, savoring every crack in her facade, I had a specific goal with this... disciplinary action.
It may sound ridiculous, but it really was what it was — I was disciplining her. But simply slapping her little ass wouldn't make a girl like Sakura learn anything meaningful. She was too intelligent, too strong-willed for such basic methods.
But that didn't mean this approach was useless.
The key was keeping her engaged. I needed her out of her defensive shell before she retreated completely into it. Once she disconnected emotionally, all my careful manipulations would become worthless. And the best way to keep her connected was to make her talk, to force emotional responses that would keep her present and reactive rather than letting her retreat into stoic endurance.
So I targeted her pride — that already wounded pride that I'd been systematically chipping away at.
"Unless you actually like this, of course," I taunted, delivering another firm slap followed by a deliberate squeeze that let my fingers trace the perfect curve of her rear. "In which case, feel free to stay silent."
Another frustrated huff escaped her, and I could see the tension in those fair thighs, the way her feet pressed against the floor.
I continued my methodical attention, making sure each perfect cheek received equal treatment, being scrupulously fair in my distribution of strikes. Her neck was flushed now too, that lovely column of pale skin showing her embarrassment despite her attempts to hide it.
But her stubborn silence held. She wasn't falling for this particular taunt, which was strange. I'd seen similar provocations work on her before.
I'd lost count of how many times her ass had welcomed my hand. By now, every inch of that perfect rear was intimately familiar with my touch. The firmness of each cheek, how the flesh yielded just so under pressure before springing back, the exact temperature of her skin, the way certain spots made her breath catch. My palm knew the geography of her body better than a well-studied map, every curve and valley committed to memory through repeated, thorough exploration.
After each strike I made sure to thoroughly explore her perfect flesh — squeezing, caressing, petting and kneading that supple ass until I could feel every curve and contour burning itself into my memory.
Her state was visibly sinking: those sandaled feet had lifted completely off the floor, her knees trembling with the effort of maintaining position, her breathing becoming increasingly ragged.
None of the actual strikes were meant to truly hurt - the discipline here was psychological, designed to shame rather than inflict real pain. For a girl like Sakura, especially one with her pride and need for control, the humiliation of being positioned like this, touched this intimately despite her clear reluctance, was far more effective than any physical discomfort.
It attacked her sense of dignity and autonomy, forcing her to confront her powerlessness in a way that would linger long after any physical sting faded.
After what felt like an eternity, I sighed audibly and stopped, letting my hand rest possessively on her well-disciplined ass without moving.
"This is supposed to be a disciplinary action, Sakura," I said, letting disappointment color my voice. "Discipline means learning from your mistakes, acknowledging what you did wrong. If you can't even apologize for your…. disobedience, then, I'm afraid, this serves no purpose."
I looked down at her, but her head remained stubbornly forward, resting on her hand at the edge of the bed. At some point during our session, I'd shifted her to a more comfortable position, though comfort was relative given her current state.
I sighed again, genuinely frustrated. This approach didn't seem to be working, and if she had truly retreated into her protective shell, continuing would only lead to unpleasant consequences.
I briefly considered using Devil's Whisper, but that power only worked on people who were actually listening and registering the words being spoken.
"Let's stop here," I said, my voice carrying real regret and obvious disappointment. "I won't file a report this time, for your mother's sake — the poor woman deserves to keep her smile. But I need you sharp from now on. No more slips."
That's when I heard it — so quiet I almost missed it entirely.
"Hum? What is that?"
She spoke again, just barely loud enough to hear, "I'm sorry," she said, in a voice that was meek and shaking and cute, completely unlike her usual confident tone.
A smile tugged at my lips at her finally breaking, but I was a jerk and wasn't about to let her off that easily.
I delivered another sharp slap — not hard enough to hurt truly, but enough to produce that satisfying crack that echoed through the room.
"I didn't hear you," I said in a deliberately loud voice, adopting the tone of a drill sergeant. "Speak up!"
Sakura repeated her words, stuttering but louder this time: "I-I'm sorry!"
"Sorry who?" Another slap landed on her perfect ass. "It seems you are forgetting who you are talking to!"
"Sorry, sensei!" she managed, her voice cracking slightly.
My grin transformed into a full smile. Now this was what I meant — the structure, the correction she so clearly lacked.
Sakura had never truly been held accountable for anything in her pampered life. With a pushover father who handed her everything and a status-chasing mother more concerned with appearances than parenting, the harshest discipline she'd probably ever faced was a warning glare from a teacher for talking in class.
Sakura had built her entire identity around being exceptional, brilliant, in control and wrapped in the certainty of being right, being better.
She'd never experienced true submission or consequences for her actions. This sudden reversal — being physically positioned in vulnerability, having her autonomy stripped away, being forced to verbalize her compliance — was attacking the very core of her self-image.
Her pride was crumbling under the systematic dismantling of her perceived authority and independence.
"What exactly are you sorry for?" I demanded, delivering another measured slap while my excitement grew. The power dynamic was intoxicating, watching this strong-willed girl finally bend.
"I'm s-sorry for not following orders during the mission!" she gasped out.
Slap. "And what else?"
"For... for putting the team at risk!" Her voice was getting shakier, more desperate.
Slap. This one landed with more force as my control slipped slightly. "What about questioning my authority?"
She hadn't done that, not explicitly at least. But she would, eventually — unless I taught her not to.
Better to correct the seed of rebellion before it grew into something worse. This was discipline, preemptive and necessary. I told myself.
A part of me knew I was pushing too far.
But another part, the part that siphoned all my blood south, wanted her broken open and rebuilt under my hand, whispered that it was necessary. That she needed this more than I did.
"I'm sorry for questioning your authority, sensei!" The words came out in a rushed sob.
Slap. The sound was sharper now, and my excitement was making me less careful about the strength. "And for being an arrogant little brat who thinks she knows better?"
That's when the dam finally broke. Sakura's composure shattered completely, and she began sobbing in earnest, her whole body trembling as the emotional weight.
"S-Sorry for being… arrogant!" Sakura choked out between sobs, her voice raw and trembling. "Sorry— I thought I knew better— I… I was a brat! I'm s-sorry, I'm so sorry, I… I didn't mean— I'm…. sorry…."
The words tumbled out between her tears, each apology more desperate than the last. Her whole body was shaking now, shoulders trembling with the force of her sobs.
I raised my hand again, my breathing heavy with the rush of power and control.
My hand froze in the air.
Had I pushed too far?