The hotel room smelled faintly of lilies and hairspray. Afternoon light slanted through half-closed blinds, striping the cream carpet. Elise stood before the full-length mirror in her modest bridesmaid dress—high neckline, elbow-length sleeves, soft gray-blue chiffon that skimmed her figure without clinging. She was twisting a final tendril of auburn hair into an elegant updo when she caught the photographer’s reflection behind her.
“You can come in all the way, Micah,” she said, voice light but deliberate. “I did ask you up here for pictures.”
Micah paused in the doorway, camera slung over one shoulder, leather messenger bag still clutched in his left hand. He was taller than she remembered from the rehearsal, broader across the shoulders, quiet in a way that felt watchful rather than shy.
“I wasn’t sure how private you wanted this part,” he said, stepping inside and letting the door click shut. “Some bridesmaids prefer the hallway for candids.”
Elise gave a small laugh, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “My father always said a woman should be modest in public. No flashing skin for strangers, no drawing eyes that don’t belong to her husband.” She slid a hairpin into place. “He was very firm about that.”
Micah set his bag on the dresser, already lifting the camera to check settings. “Sounds like a man with strong convictions.”
“He had… layers.” She hesitated, then let the words come anyway, softer. “The second half of his teaching was more controversial. He said if a woman truly desired to gain a particular man’s attention—and only his—it wasn’t necessarily a violation to reveal herself to that one unmarried man… privately. Where no one else could see. Where it stayed exclusive.”
Micah lowered the camera slightly. His expression didn’t change much, but something sharpened behind his eyes. “That’s an interesting distinction. Public modesty, private exception.”
“Exactly.” Elise turned halfway toward him, one hand still touching the back of her hair. “He said the sin isn’t the nakedness itself. It’s the audience. Everyone seeing what should belong to one man—that’s what cheapens it.”
Micah nodded slowly. “Makes a certain kind of sense. If a woman’s going to bare herself, better it’s deliberate. Exclusive. Not scattered across every passing glance on the street.” He lifted the camera again, framing her profile. “Better one man gets the gift than a crowd gets the show.”
Elise’s lips curved, pleased he’d followed the logic. “You understand.”
“I do.” He clicked once, twice. “Though I’ll admit… most women who dress immodestly in public could use a sharper reminder. A good caning from whichever man holds authority over them would sort that out quick.”
She laughed—a surprised, delighted sound. “You think so?”
“Absolutely. Public immodesty deserves public correction. But…” He stepped closer, lens still raised. “If a woman reveals herself privately—to one man she trusts—that’s different. No cane required. A belt across her bare bottom, though? That can bring satisfaction as well as pain. Balance.”
Elise’s cheeks warmed. She turned fully toward him now, hands resting lightly on the vanity. “You’re teasing.”
“Am I?” Micah’s voice stayed calm, almost gentle. “Ask yourself. If you showed yourself to me right now—just us, door locked—would you rather I cane you for it… or take my belt to you?”
She bit her lip, eyes dancing. “My father’s whippings were to be avoided at all costs. I mostly managed it the last few years.” A pause. “Mostly. I did get one a year ago. Speeding. Only ten over the limit.”
Micah raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“He made me bend over the hood of the car. Right there in the garage.” Her voice dropped. “So embarrassing. I didn’t have my own place yet. No husband. ... So, I just had to take it.”
“On the bare?”
Elise blushed deeper, gaze sliding away. She gave the tiniest nod. “He said that’s the only place shame really teaches a woman.”
Micah exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. “Shame’s a good teacher. But whippings from a man who isn’t family…” He let the sentence hang. “That hits different. Body knows it’s not just discipline anymore.”
Elise swallowed. Then, very deliberately, she reached up and slipped the thin shoulder straps of her dress off. The chiffon sighed down her arms, past her waist, pooling at her feet. She stood bare before him—soft curves, pale skin flushed pink at throat and chest, nipples already pebbled in the cool air.
She turned back to the mirror as though nothing momentous had happened and resumed pinning a loose strand. “A bridesmaid should suffer a little embarrassment,” she murmured. “Keeps her mindful. It’s the bride’s day. Not hers. No stealing attention.”
Micah didn’t speak at first. He simply raised the camera and took several shots from behind—her slender back, the gentle flare of hips, the rounded bare bottom framed by nothing but air and intention. Click. Click. The shutter sounded louder than it should have.
After a moment he lowered the lens. “You know… a whipping right now would help you behave during the ceremony.”
Elise glanced over her shoulder, coy. “I just gave you quite a gift, Micah. And you want to punish me for it?”
“You gave me a privilege,” he corrected, unbuckling his belt with slow, deliberate movements. The leather slid free. “Privileges come with responsibility. Turn around.”
She hesitated—only a heartbeat—then obeyed. He caught her arm, turned her fully to face him, and gently but firmly pulled her wrists away from where they’d instinctively crossed over her breasts.
He looked. Not leering. Studying. “These would do well feeding babies someday,” he said quietly, almost reverent.
Elise’s breath hitched.
He placed his palm on her hip and pulled her from the mirror guiding her with hid hand on the small of her back. He brougt her to the foot of the hotel bed. “Bend over.”
She bent. Elbows on the duvet, bottom presented, face half-hidden in her forearms. The first stroke of the belt cracked across both cheeks. She gasped, body jerking. The second landed lower. Her bottom bucked, bobbing, squirming against the liquid fire.
“Please—” she whimpered after the fourth.
“Submit to it,” he said, voice low and even. “You wanted private. This is private.”
The strokes varied—some crisp and sharp, others slower, heavier. She pleaded softly, promises spilling out between whimpers. He set the belt aside, sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled her down across his lap. His hand moved over the hot, reddened skin, rubbing, kneading, possessive.
“Good girl,” he murmured. “So obedient. So beautiful like this.”
He fondled her for a long time—nearly an hour—tracing every curve, every raised welt, every shiver. She lay limp and trembling across his thighs, breathing shallow.
When he finally helped her stand, she was flushed everywhere. She stepped carefully back into the dress, wincing as the fabric brushed her skin. The straps slid up again, modest once more.
“The photos,” she said quietly, eyes on his. “You could use them. Blackmail me. Make me submit… whenever you decide.”
Micah smiled, small and knowing. “I could.”
She shifted weight from one foot to the other. “My bottom hurts so much. I won’t be able to sit at the reception.”
“You’ll get used to standing.” He buckled his belt again. “You’ll need the practice anyway.”
She blinked. “For…?”
“Your own wedding.” He stepped close, voice dropping. “I’ll whip you before the ceremony. Same way. Bare. If you are good some time over my knee afterward. So you walk down the aisle remembering who you belong to.”
Elise laughed—half protest, half delighted disbelief. “We’re not even engaged though—”
He smacked her bottom once through the dress—sharp enough to make her yelp and rise onto her toes.
“You aren’t in control anymore,” he said simply.
She stared at him a long moment. "Yes, sir." Then, coy again, she gathered the skirt of her dress and lifted it high in back, baring the hot, striped cheeks of her btotom framed by gray-blue fabric. She glanced back at him over her shoulder, grimacing theatrically.
“Take another picture,” she whispered. “While the stripes are fresh.”
Micah raised the camera.
Click.
