Chapter 4: A New Grain**

Chapter 4: A New Grain

The sound of the workshop—the distant whine of a saw, the rhythmic thud of a pneumatic hammer—faded to a dull roar in Kris’s ears. All she could see was the thick strip of dark leather in Clara’s hand. It wasn’t a prop from a sordid fantasy; it was a tool, just like the chisels and mallets arranged on the workbench. It was weathered, oiled, and purposeful. The sight of it sent a spike of pure, primal fear through her, so sharp it almost tasted sweet. This was real. This was happening.

“I told you that our first meeting was an interview,” Clara said, her voice a low, calm counterpoint to the chaos in Kris’s head. “I needed to see if you had the courage to want something forbidden. You do.” She took a step forward, and Kris flinched back, her hips hitting the hard edge of the workbench. “Now I need to see if you have the discipline to receive it.”

Kris’s throat was tight, her own perfect blue dress suddenly feeling like a costume for a child playing dress-up. “Discipline?” she croaked.

“You’ve spent your entire life pleasing others,” Clara stated, her eyes missing nothing. “Nodding when you want to scream. Smiling when you want to cry. Your body is a knot of polite little lies. I’m going to untie you, Kris. But first, I have to teach you to be still. To listen only to me.”

Clara didn’t move to touch her. She simply held Kris’s terrified gaze and issued a quiet command. “Take off your dress.”

The words hung in the sawdust-scented air. It was an impossible request. They were in a workshop, albeit a private corner of it. Anyone could walk in. The humiliation of it was a physical wave that made her blush from her chest to her hairline. But underneath the shame, a darker, hotter current pulled at her. The memory of Mark’s oblivious peck on the cheek, of her own invisibility in her perfect life, flashed in her mind. Clara saw her. And Clara was asking her to shed the very skin of that old life.

Her fingers, clumsy and trembling, found the zipper at the back of her neck. The sound was obscenely loud as it slid down her spine. The blue cotton pooled around her feet, leaving her standing in her sensible, beige underwear, a pale and vulnerable figure in the vast, masculine space. She felt utterly exposed, stripped bare not just of her clothing, but of her pretenses.

“Good,” Clara said, the word a soft approval that landed like a caress. “Now turn around. Hands on the bench.”

Panic flared again. To turn her back on this woman, on this situation, was to surrender all control. But wasn't that the point? A part of her, a desperate, starved part, was screaming for this. To let go. To be guided. To be broken open.

She obeyed. The surface of the workbench was cool and smooth against her palms, smelling faintly of cedar oil. She stared at the grain of the massive slab of timber, her knuckles white. She could hear Clara moving behind her, the soft scuff of her boots on the concrete floor. She braced herself for a blow, for pain.

Instead, she felt a gentle touch. Clara’s fingers traced the line of her spine, from the nape of her neck down to the waistband of her panties. The touch was analytical, knowing, as if she were assessing the grain of a new piece of wood.

“You’re terrified,” Clara murmured, her voice close to Kris’s ear. “You’re thinking about your husband. Your son. What they would think if they saw you now. You’re anywhere but here.” Her hand came to rest on the small of Kris’s back, a firm, grounding pressure. “I want you here, Kris. Only here.”

And then came the sound. The sharp, terrifying crack of the leather strap cutting through the air, striking the workbench inches from Kris’s hand. She cried out, a strangled yelp, her whole body jerking with the shock of it.

“Pay attention,” Clara commanded, her voice calm but unyielding.

The second time, it landed. Not with the brutal force she’d feared, but with a stinging, electric heat across the top of her left thigh. The shock was blinding. It wasn’t just pain; it was pure, unadulterated sensation, so intense it blasted every other thought from her mind. There was no room for Mark, for Leo, for guilt. There was only the hot, sharp line blooming on her skin and the intimidating presence of the woman behind her.

Tears sprang to Kris’s eyes. A sob caught in her throat.

“Breathe,” Clara ordered, her voice a low rumble.

Another sting, this time on the right. Sharper. Kris bit her lip to keep from screaming, a coppery taste filling her mouth. Her body was rigid, every muscle coiled tight.

“I told you I would splinter you,” Clara said, her voice dropping lower, more intimate. “These polite little walls you’ve built? We’re going to knock them down. One sensation at a time.”

The strap fell again, and again, not with anger, but with a steady, relentless rhythm. It was a cadence of deconstruction. The sting was no longer just a shock; it became a focus. Each strike was a bright, hot star in the darkness of her panic. Her mind, which was usually a tangled mess of anxiety and to-do lists, became blessedly, terrifyingly blank. Her world shrank to the cool wood beneath her hands, the scent of cedar, and the rhythm of the blows landing on her skin.

And then, something shifted. Her body, the traitor, the liar, began to respond in a way she couldn't comprehend. The sharp sting of each impact was followed by a blooming, spreading heat that pooled low in her belly. The sob caught in her throat twisted, changing its shape, becoming something closer to a moan. The tears streaming down her face were no longer from fear or shame, but from an overwhelming, shattering release. Her hips moved on their own accord, a slight, involuntary press against the workbench.

The rhythm stopped. The sudden silence was as deafening as the blows had been. Kris stayed frozen, her body trembling, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The afterglow of the discipline was a wildfire in her veins.

She felt Clara’s presence behind her, the heat of her body. A hand, gentle now, rested on her back. “There you are,” Clara whispered.

Kris finally collapsed, her arms giving way as she crumpled into a heap of raw nerve endings and shuddering breaths, her cheek pressed against the cool wood. She was undone. Completely and utterly undone.

For a long time, there was only the sound of Kris’s ragged breathing. Clara didn’t speak. When Kris finally found the strength to turn, to sit up on the floor with her back against the workbench, she saw Clara looking at her. The expression on the CEO’s face wasn’t triumphant or smug. It was… thoughtful. Perceptive.

“Why?” Kris whispered, the single word encompassing everything. Why me? Why this?

Clara was quiet for a moment, her gaze dropping to the leather strap she still held loosely in one hand. Then she looked up, and her eyes met Kris’s. For the first time, Kris saw something other than power and control. She saw a flicker of something ancient, something wounded.

Clara raised her free hand and lightly touched the small, faded scar that sliced through her eyebrow. “A gift from my father,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of its usual commanding tone. “When I was eighteen. I told him I wasn’t going to business school. I told him I wanted to work with my hands, in the mill. He didn’t approve.”

Kris stared, speechless.

“He said a Vance woman was meant to be polished, smooth. Easy to shape for a suitable marriage.” Clara’s fingers traced the line of the scar, a gesture so unconscious and vulnerable it made Kris’s chest ache. “He told me I had the wrong grain. That I needed to be planed down, forced into the correct form.” Her eyes, sharp and intense again, locked onto Kris’s. “I happen to believe that the most beautiful pieces of wood are the ones with the most character. The ones that fight back a little before they find their true shape.”

Kris looked at the red marks beginning to bloom on her own thighs, then back at the scar on Clara’s face. The discipline, the humiliation, the overwhelming pleasure—it all shifted, re-aligning into a new, terrifying pattern. She wasn't just a conquest. She wasn't just a project.

Clara saw the wild grain in her, the imperfections hidden beneath the veneer of suburban polish. And she wasn't trying to plane it down. She was trying to bring it to the surface.

The realization was more intimate than any kiss, more profound than any touch. This wasn’t a simple affair. It was something far more complicated, and infinitely more dangerous.