[Fic] Discipline

[kittydesade]

Title: Discipline
Fandom: Human Target
Characters: Joubert, Star (OFC)
Word Count: ~1800
Rating: R
Summary: Joubert, unhappy with his boy, hires a prostitute to relieve his frustration.
A/N: Written for kink_bingo prompt "Caning". Contains hard/violent BDSM scenario.

She truly was a beautiful woman. Like a sculpture of what a real woman should be, sensual curves and fine skin. He appreciated his boy's taste in most things, refined as it was, but this was a stroke of luck or genius, Joubert wasn't sure which.

He'd contacted her six weeks after Junior was done. Enough time to make sure the boy hadn't formed any undue attachments. And he waited till Junior was out on a mission so that wouldn't interfere with his weekend, either. Baptiste wouldn't be a problem. He knew when to leave the old man alone and only contact him in case of emergency. Joubert left a phone number and took his sat-phone up to the cabin with him. Cabin being a slight misnomer anyway, it was a remote but elaborate house up in the hills of the Pacific Northwest. He flew her out there to meet him rather than confront her in her own territory. Economy class. He was curious, but not that curious.

And here she was, satisfying his curiosity. Along with other urges.

"Turn around."

She did. Wordless and silent, subdued and with a rebellious pout to her lower lip and a straight, stiff back. Hips cocked to give him a good angle on her ass, and standing up straight to give him a good view of everything. Her breasts peaked at rosebud nipples, deep rose, with her tan. And taut in the cool air.

"I see why he picked you out," he commented. It didn't require a response from her, so he was pleased when she didn't give one. "Come here."

Obedience. Hesitating, dubious obedience, but obedience nonetheless, and without wariness or fear. He'd told her what he required of her in looser terms on the phone, but this was impressive. She was carrying just enough spirit to keep her interesting. She wasn't obeying without question or resisting enough to irritate him.

No wonder she had held his boy's interest. Beauty and brains in that pretty little head of hers.

"You don't like me very much, do you." It wasn't a question, but it did require a response. Which came in the form of a cocked eyebrow and a pert, disapproving look.

"It's not my place to like you," she told him. "You're not hard to look at."

He laughed. Patted his thigh to indicate her to sit. "You're full of... wit, aren't you." Last minute word substitution there; somehow her demeanor didn't invite swearing. "You've an answer for everything, even what your client hasn't asked yet."

Her return smile was sharp. "It's my job to know what the client wants."

And even as it provoked him, by the time he'd thrown her down to the floor he realized that not only was she right, she was right in a way that he hadn't known she would be. If he couldn't vent his frustration on the woman who'd taken Junior's attention and his love away from him, he would vent his anger on her, and she had given him the perfect reason. The perfect excuse. Because that's all it was, an excuse.

"Then do your job," he snapped. Roared. Somewhere in between the two. "Don't talk about it like you think I don't know what it means, do it. Be a fucking professional," he added, a small part of him knowing he wasn't speaking to her at all.

She flattened herself against the floor, still on her hands and knees but cowering , a flicker of cold loathing showing on the sliver of her face he could see.

He went to the corner of the room, picked up the thin rod of willow standing there. Gathering dust for ten years or more, now. "You don't like me, do you." She drew herself up, sitting on her heels and raising her head. "Don't look at me. Look at the floor. Answer the question," he added when her head was suitably bowed.

"It's not my place..."

"Don't spit that back at me like you think I'll believe your pathetic lies," he snapped. "I don't believe you. You hear me? You come up with a better story, or..."

"Or you'll what?" she snapped back, rearing her head up and arching her back.

So he slapped her. Backhand, across the face. Hard, putting his shoulder behind it and a wellspring of rage opening up that he hadn't realized went quite that deep. She went down, rolling with it, he knew, because he could feel her body relax and even almost see it, but he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her head up again.

"You need to learn some discipline," he sneered, pulling her up by her hair as her hand clamped around his wrist and held tight. The wall he flung her into was close enough that she barely had time to intercept with her knee and shoulder before it hit her in the face. Better than him hitting her in the face, he thought. Once he started he wasn't sure he would stop. "You need to learn you can't spread your whore legs for every boy with a pretty face who comes along. Some of them are just a little too good for you."

If she was bothered by anything he said, she didn't show it. Her wide eyes were fearful, her body cringed away from him, but all the instinct in him said it was fake. At least, the substantial part of it. If she'd wanted to get away she would have done so by now, no matter how much she trembled. He grabbed her by the hair again and dragged her into the bedroom.

"You need to learn what happens when you misbehave." Breathless, he dragged her not to the bed, but to the desk, flung her down bent over it. There was a flicker of a moment where he watched, part of him commenting at her professional instinct and her aptitude for reading people, as she shifted to take him in and then slumped against the table as though he'd knocked the wind out of her. He still hadn't undressed.

His hand caressed her hip as he swung the willow stick through the air. It swished, high-pitched and threatening. "I hate to do this to you, I really do. But you need. To learn. To mind. Your elders."

The crack of the willow rod against her backside punctuated each phrase. She yelped at the first two, and then as he stopped speaking and started swinging in earnest she bit her lip and shut her eyes and made little cries of suppressed pain. The rod left little red welts on her backside, down the backs of her thighs, bringing pink to her flesh and inviting him in and, god, but he did want to take her. Even just as she was, although this kind of violence had never been that much of a turn-on for him. When he stopped she sank to the floor after a moment, sobbing in pain. And obedient. Deeply obedient.

Joubert undid his belt and trousers and laid the willow rod across the arms of the desk chair, watching the way she kept shifting, trying to find some kind of comfortable position. "No, don't move," he told her, and she froze immediately. "Stay there. Good..." His hand caressed down her back, feeling the sweat along her spine. One finger trailed between the cheeks, pressing against but not into her. "See? Now you're learning."

She didn't stop sobbing entirely, but the tears subsided as he pulled her hips up to her accompanying hiss of pain, the sweat on his hands stinging her abraded flesh. He reached between her legs, felt her wet. Steamy and wet. "If you're good, if you mind yourself, we won't have to do this again," he told her, reasonably. His voice was as calm as when he'd picked up the phone. "It's not like I ask for much," he told her, pulling a condom out of his pants pocket before tossing them aside, taking it out, rolling it on. "Just a little respect, a little discipline from my boys. Just to be obeyed."

And she gasped. Cried out, even. Because that last word was the accompaniment to a sharp thrust and again the sweat stung her. The impact of his hips against her ass. He ground his hips into her, pulling her up sharp against him and fucking her as deep as he could go, feeling her breasts brush against his hand. Between them, he could see the angry red marks where he'd disciplined her. She'd have those marks for days. The thought made him grin, made him fuck her harder.

She enjoyed it, too, he knew. Those cries weren't all pain and those tears weren't all humiliation, she enjoyed it. The sting of the willow against her ass, the touch of his hand after. The discipline followed by the reward being a good girl got her. Oh, she enjoyed it. She had to have, because she writhed around him as she came as much as any other whore he'd bought for a night. He wasn't unreasonable.

And by the time he took his pleasure they were both sweaty and limp. He pulled out, pulled the condom off and wiped himself off with a tissue, a couple of towels. She was still taking her cues from him, and so she stayed huddled on the floor and didn't look up at him.

Instead, he looked at her for several minutes.

"Clean yourself up." He tossed a towel at her, lightly, not meaning to be mean. "The shower's nice and warm. Gentle, if you like that sort of thing." An offhand gesture, but she nodded, rose a little shakily to her feet and disappeared into the bathroom. And by the time she'd come out again he'd stretched out on one side of the bed, leaving room for her to settle down under the blankets next to him. No point in separate beds when he'd paid for the weekend.

He felt better already, too. Damn, but he hadn't thought she'd be worth the ridiculous rates she charged, but she was. She fit right around him like a comfortable glove; he'd have to remember her number.

When she came out he patted the bed next to him. "Expect you're tired," he offered. "Keep me company, even if not."

The corner of her mouth twitched up in petulant, sensual smile. She didn't twitch as though she feared being hit, didn't avert her eyes as she crawled into bed with him and molded herself to his body. If he had needed a quasi-willing victim before, he preferred her to play the equal lover now, and somehow, she'd known that.

He'd definitely have to remember her number for later.