Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

L ucas

I almost decided to do nothing at all. The photographer had clearly tricked Alice into coming to the press conference. I didn’t even really feel much anger at the embarrassment her presence had caused: Alice would undoubtedly get all the attention from the paparazzi she needed to learn once and for all never to go near another celebrity.

But my mind refused to let go of one lingering question: Alice had said she never wanted to see me again. Why had she come to the match at all, let alone allowed herself to be tricked into coming to the press conference?

I’d been on the point of accepting the transfer to Yokohama. I’d told myself that if nothing else, my few days’ relationship with Alice at least had helped me make my mind up about that—I needed to leave Paris and not return until the memory of Alice Morgan had faded sufficiently that I could walk the streets of the Left Bank without feeling as if my heart had been ripped out of my body.

And now… I didn’t know.

One thing seemed absolutely clear, though: Alice needed to be disciplined for the embarrassment she had caused—not on my behalf anywhere near as much as on behalf of my teammates, whose glorious victory against Lyon had gone almost unnoticed under the flood of speculation Alice’s appearance had caused.

And of course on Alice’s behalf, because I had seen in her eyes, when I had fixed her with my own gaze, just how badly she needed to have consequences imposed for her foolishness.

So as I left the press conference, my mind churned with conflicting emotions. The thrill of victory against Lyon had been overshadowed by Alice’s unexpected appearance. Her presence had stirred up feelings I thought I’d managed to bury—desire, possessiveness, and a burning need to assert my dominance over her once more.

I made my way through the winding corridors of the Parc des Princes, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows on the concrete walls. The air was thick with the mingled scents of sweat, grass, and victory—a heady combination that usually filled me with satisfaction. Tonight, however, my thoughts were consumed by Alice.

As I pushed open the heavy door to the locker room, I was greeted by the raucous celebration of my teammates. Bottles of champagne popped, their contents spraying across the room in glittering arcs. The air was filled with laughter and shouted congratulations in a dozen different languages.

I plastered on a smile, accepting back slaps and high fives as I made my way through the crowd. My eyes sought out Tomas and Leo, finding them in a quieter corner of the room. They looked up as I approached, concern evident in their expressions.

“That was quite a scene in there,” Tomas said, his voice low enough that only Leo and I could hear.

I nodded, running a hand through my sweat-dampened hair. “It was unexpected,” I admitted. “But it’s given me some clarity.”

I leaned in closer to Tomas and Leo, lowering my voice. “Listen, I need a favor. Can you get the team together in the locker room tomorrow afternoon? Say around four?”

Tomas raised an eyebrow, curiosity sparking in his dark eyes. “Sure, but what’s this about, Lucas?”

I glanced around, ensuring no one else was within earshot. The locker room was a cacophony of celebration.

“I need to address the team about… recent events,” I said carefully. “And about my future with PSG.”

Leo’s eyes widened slightly. “You’ve made a decision about the Yokohama offer?”

I nodded, feeling a weight lift from my shoulders. “I have. But I want the team to hear it first, before the press gets wind of it.”

My teammates exchanged a look, concern etched on their faces. Tomas clapped a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring. “We’ll make it happen, mon ami . You can count on us.”

With that settled, I made my way to my locker, my mind already racing ahead to my next move. I pulled out my phone, my fingers hovering over the screen for a moment before I began to type:

Alice, be in your apartment tomorrow afternoon at 3:30. You have a whipping coming.

Alice

My blood ran cold when I read Lucas’ message.

My hands wouldn’t stop trembling as I read it again and again, my heart pounding so loudly I could hear it in my ears. A whipping. The words sent a shiver down my spine, equal parts terror and arousal coursing through my veins.

I paced the length of my small apartment, the plush carpet muffling my footsteps. Outside, I could hear the constant chatter and occasional shout of the paparazzi camped on my doorstep. Their presence was a stark reminder of my foolishness in falling for the photographer’s trick.

As the hours ticked by, I found myself unable to focus on anything. I tried to distract myself with schoolwork, but the words on the page blurred together, my mind constantly drifting back to Lucas’ message. The thought of his strong hands wielding the martinet, the sharp sting of leather against my skin, sent jolts of heat straight to my helplessly warm pussy.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and nearly gasped at the reflection. My cheeks were flushed, eyes bright with a mixture of fear and anticipation. My nipples strained against the thin fabric of my t-shirt, betraying my body’s eager response to the promise of punishment.

As afternoon faded into evening, I found myself drawn to the window. Peeking through the curtains, I could see the small crowd of photographers still huddled on the sidewalk.

The hours passed as I found myself trapped in a prison of my own making. The paparazzi outside my apartment building were relentless, shouting at even the slightest movement behind my curtains. I paced restlessly, feeling like a caged animal.

The thought of messaging Lucas, begging him not to come, crossed my mind a hundred times. My fingers hovered over my phone, trembling as I imagined typing out the words that might put an end to this exquisite torment. But each time, I found myself unable to follow through. The mere idea of denying Lucas, of disappointing him further, made my chest ache with a pain I couldn’t quite understand—fear was there, but it didn’t represent the core of the emotion.

As night fell, I seriously considered fleeing Paris altogether. I could pack a bag, slip out the back entrance, and disappear into the night. I even went so far as to pull my suitcase from the closet, the sound of the zipper unnaturally loud in the quiet apartment. But as I stood there, staring at the empty bag, I realized I had nowhere to go. More important, I didn’t want to go anywhere. Despite my fear, despite my better judgment, I wanted—no, needed—to face whatever consequences Lucas had in store for me.

The thought of the impending whipping filled me with an impossibly complex mixture of thoughts and feelings. Terror gripped my heart, making it race and my palms sweat. I remembered the sharp sting of the martinet, but I also remembered my keeper’s tender touch between my thighs.

As dawn broke, casting a pale golden light through my curtains, I found myself curled up on the sofa, having barely slept. My mind raced with conflicting emotions, each battling for dominance in my exhausted psyche.

The thought of Lucas’ impending arrival filled me with a terror so profound it left me breathless. I could almost feel the whip against my tender flesh, the sharp crack of leather meeting skin echoing in my ears. My bottom clenched involuntarily, remembering the searing pain of my last punishment.

And yet… beneath the fear, a small voice whispered that I deserved this. That I needed it. The shame of my foolish actions at the press conference burned hot in my chest. I had embarrassed Lucas, potentially jeopardized his career, all because I couldn’t stay away. The weight of my transgression pressed down on me, an invisible burden I longed to be free of.

As I hugged my knees to my chest, I realized with startling clarity that I craved the absolution only Lucas could provide. The idea of submitting to his discipline, of accepting the consequences of my actions, filled me with a sense of rightness I couldn’t deny. My body tingled with a mixture of fear and anticipation, my nipples hardening against the soft fabric of my sleep shirt.

I stood on shaky legs, moving to the full-length mirror in my bedroom, unable to help taking another look to see if I could recognize myself this time. The woman who stared back at me looked wild-eyed and disheveled. My chestnut hair was a tangled mess, my green eyes wide and frantic. Dark circles shadowed my gaze, testament to the sleepless night I’d endured. My skin looked pale and drawn, save for two bright spots of color high on my cheekbones.

As I studied myself, a strange calm began to settle over me. The wild, panicked look in my eyes slowly faded, replaced by something else—a kind of clarity I hadn’t felt in days. My racing thoughts stilled, and in the quiet of my mind, a truth I’d been desperately trying to ignore finally surfaced.

I needed Lucas.

Not just his touch, his kisses, or even the mind-blowing sex. I needed his guidance, his firm hand, his unwavering authority. The realization hit me like a physical blow, leaving me breathless.

My eyes widened as I confronted this truth. I thought of how lost I’d felt these past days without Lucas’ steady presence. How adrift I’d been without his commands, his expectations to meet. Even my studies, usually a source of comfort and purpose, had felt hollow and meaningless.

A memory flashed through my mind—Lucas praising me for the way I’d explained my interest in peasant life in the medieval period. The warmth that had blossomed in my chest at his approval, the deep sense of satisfaction I’d felt at pleasing him.

Pondering my reflection and the truth of my feelings, another realization struck me. The idea of a traditional marriage, which had seemed so oppressive and antiquated before, suddenly took on a new light.

I imagined myself as Lucas’ wife, not as some subservient doormat, but as his cherished partner. I saw myself pursuing my academic passions with his full support and encouragement. But I also saw myself submitting to his authority in the bedroom, reveling in the exquisite pleasure-pain of his discipline. I imagined cooking dinner for him after a long day of research, then kneeling at his feet as he fed me bites from his plate.

The image sent a shiver of desire through me, my core clenching with need. I realized that this was what I truly wanted—to be Lucas’ well-disciplined, thoroughly fucked, and deeply loved wife.

My eyes widened at the thought. It went against everything I’d been taught to believe about relationships and gender roles. And yet… it felt right in a way nothing else ever had.

I glanced at the clock, my heart rate picking up as I saw it was nearly time for Lucas to arrive. Despite my newfound clarity, fear still coiled in my belly at the thought of the punishment to come. I knew it would hurt—Lucas never did anything by halves. But I also knew I needed it, craved it even.

I heard a commotion, down below: pleading shouts whose words I couldn’t quite make out, except “Lucas! Lucas!”, which was common to every voice.

My heart began to race as I heard them getting louder, more frantic. Lucas had arrived, and he must not have simply driven by when he saw the press… he must have stopped, must have gotten out of his limo. I moved to the window, peering cautiously through the curtains. My breath caught in my throat as I saw him striding purposefully through the crowd of paparazzi, his face set in a mask of stern determination.