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Kate pored over several apartment pictures on her laptop screen. Beyond her ninth-floor office, teams organized Hair Air's marketing, finance, and human talent, their crew. On her screen, extensive space soothed her. She and Ben seldom relaxed in their modest two-bedroom apartment. From her studio, upgrading to Ben's apartment had tripled her space. Building Hair Air, she'd designed sizeable executive offices, demanding productive results for her largesse. Their screaming sales supported her management style. She glanced around her generous office. It was larger than their living room.

On one browser tab she had a spectacular roof terrace, leafy green foliage encircling cushioned seating for twelve. She imagined summer evenings with friends. The next tab had substantial internal space, a rational decision, but nothing remarkable. Her denied tab contained exceptional. Black marble flowed through white designer rooms opening onto a broad, classic roof terrace surrounded by a trimmed hedge. Silly money. She gave it a long glance, closing her absurd tab.

Diane had prompted her curious browsing, telling her about Tamsin's incredible townhouse. She sighed, remembering her legendary dinner party. Friends had filled their small lounge, Tamsin providing hit entertainment, swept into Jake's deserving arms. After delivering her to the Belmont Palace Hotel, she, Diane and Louise had floated home on a vicarious romantic cloud, sharing tears.

Minimizing her browser, she approved Jenna's massive marketing budget for launching Europe. She didn't need to consult Ben, their outstanding formula of pop-up dance events and online promotions already proven. Scrolling the plan, she skimmed mock-up billboard images, recognizing French, German, Spanish and Italian.

Ben bounced into his office near Kate's, unaware of his girlfriend's browsing. Yesterday, he'd watched their orange promotional dance team perform for a pre-recorded TV chat show on the other coast. Landing upstate, he'd visited his serum factory. They produced Hair Air's core serum months before their worldwide production factories required it. Spending all morning in the attached laboratory, he'd studied his cosmetic scientists' future ideas. They'd accepted his challenge. His latest idea was air-painted nails in ten seconds. Hair Air had motivated brilliant cosmetic scientists to join his 'Imagination Team'.

In ten seconds, Hair Air provided awe-inspiring sparkle, keeping girl's hair in perfect shape. Their marketing dancers even plunged baseball caps on their heads during their dynamite routine, their hair bouncing back into proper shape. After a single, tough caning, Jenna, his marketing manager, had exploded his vision into color coded teams of sexy dancers, spreading his hair-positive global message.

Instant hair perfection dominated his every waking second. Asleep, his mind solved issues. Awake, he inspired everybody to spread hair love. The Hair Air crew didn't pore over problems, they solved them. Kate had hired brilliant crew members. Fighting off a legal challenge, he'd handed her massive responsibility. She'd earned her stripes. Eighteen literal cane stripes on her exquisite bottom had motivated his girlfriend to co-found his empire.

His glass office walls had expanded outwards, encompassing ten nearby desks. The office of the CEO handled extensive communication, linking him to all areas of their expanding business. Assistants and liaisons maintained clear communications while analysts answered his endless questions. Behind her desk, Chloe, his Lab Liaison, ignored him, perfect blonde hair buried in her laptop screen. He continued into his office. She concerned him. She hadn't revealed Nail Air's clever formula stuck to nails, shying from nearby skin. A major coup. Her inconsistent performance confused him, marring his otherwise calm oasis.

His dream oasis was one thousand miles southeast, and not his. Before his Hair Air prototype, he'd researched girls' opinions about hair. He'd watched a supermodel interviewed about her hair routine. During a swimsuit photoshoot on a private island, she'd talked about her hair struggles, turquoise sea lapping against pure white sand at her feet. Curious about cost, he'd searched private islands, subscribing to a newsletter showing available islands. Cheap islands existed in Canada and Central America. The model's pristine beach cost someone millions.

Yesterday, the regular email had offered an exquisite private island, ready for instant occupation. He'd hesitated, opening the email. Pristine waterfront and private white beaches had painted turquoise paradise across his laptop screen. Occupying the tranquil oasis required thirty-five million. His fancy had flirted with his reality. Although he lacked cash, he was, in fact, rich. He resolved to talk to Kate tonight.

After dinner, Ben placed his laptop on the coffee table. Glancing around their modest apartment, he sat beside Kate on their worn brown leather couch. 

"You still working?" she asked.

He shook his head. 

She glanced at his laptop. 

He loaded the simple spreadsheet he'd built earlier. "I want to show you our reality. Twenty-five million subscribers buy three-hundred-sixty-five pouches of Hair Air in a year."

She nodded.

"Pouches cost one dollar. That's nine point one billion dollars of annual revenue."

"Holy fuck!"

"Holy fuck, indeed. Retailers add three point six billion."

"Twelve point seven billion in revenue?" 

He nodded. "Our operating costs are twenty-five percent. Leaving a net income of nine point five billion before interest, tax, depreciation and amortization."

"I hadn't added it up," she said. "I knew our subscriber numbers were amazing."

"So are our financials. Our customer loyalty and future growth commands a tenfold valuation. I've researched cosmetic company deals. If we valued Hair Air tonight, I estimate the company is worth ninety-five billion."

He showed her his private island oasis. She stared at his peaceful dream. "Is that real?"

He nodded. "I'm unsure how we extract cash from Hair Air, but this island is within our reach."

Grabbing her laptop, she maximized her browser, showing him the two apartments she'd drooled over. Not the absurd one. It cost an entire island.

"I'd love space," he said. "But we won't fill our heads with unattainable dreams. We park our imaginations until I discover what is possible."

She agreed, putting away her laptop. She didn't mention she'd already called the realtor. Viewing the roof terrace apartment would help her feel its lesser indoor space.

"I'll talk to Evan," he said. Their lead investor had grown companies before.

Heading towards their bedroom, Kate smiled. The amazing trappings of extreme wealth were beyond her reach tonight. Ben wasn't. She'd never slept with a billionaire.

Ripping off her tight tee, she shoved down her Levi wedgie jeans, a firm favorite. Their tight grip on her butt shouted sexy confidence. Before her bedroom mirror, her white cotton bikini panties with delicate waist frill matched her lace decorated white bra. Demure white underwear beneath her sexy jeans made her feel innocent. Long before he'd become a billionaire, she'd obeyed Ben.

Ben entered. On their bed, her phone flashed a message preview.

Nudging it towards her, Ben frowned, recognizing the realtor's brand name. "Have you contacted them?"

She pursed her lips. "I'm viewing the roof-terrace place tomorrow. I wanted to feel it."

His tone turned tough. "You should have mentioned it just now."

His displeasure thrust down her core.

"They don't show high value apartments to unqualified clients," he said.

"I told them I was co-founder of Hair Air."

"Ruining our negotiating power."

Damn. She hadn't thought beyond looking inside. "Sorry."

"You should know better."

Her bottom tingled, hoping his displeasure would manifest into hard action. She needed it.

"Were you planning on telling me?" he demanded.

She shook her head. "I'd already booked it."

"I can't ignore dishonesty, Kate."

Her sex throbbed under his anger. A stupid, dishonest decision, deserving of hard correction, she hoped.

"Kate, I'm going to cane you. Six strokes. Very hard ones."

Shit. Very hard. She had lunch tomorrow. "But I'm seeing my mom tomorrow," she exclaimed. Out of her mouth before her brain engaged, his stern expression proved she'd compounded her problem.

"Ten strokes," he said, disappearing into their open-plan living room to fetch their cane.

Kept in a gap above their fridge, the pale golden rattan cane defined their strict relationship. Meeting on a train, he'd figured out her naughty game, her tight black dress so short, her white cotton string panties blatant to passing passengers. That night, she'd given herself light cane flicks, punishing herself for her intentional disgraceful public behavior. After their first date, he'd upgraded her to genuine canings. She treasured his strict authority. It hurt, but it had to. Swarming butterflies respected the gravity of her harsh sentence.

He reappeared, flexing their senior cane. It wasn't golden. Thicker and darker, the menacing rattan guaranteed proper pain. Lunch tomorrow would serve up solid soreness.

Seeing her stunned stare, he said, "I promised you I'd use this if you ever deserved it. You were indiscreet and impatient. You lied. Omission is a lie. Six strokes of our ordinary cane was a reasonable punishment, generous even. But you questioned your discipline. I won't tolerate disobedience, Kate. This cane will hurt you. I expect you to show immense grace despite your suffering. Prove you're sorry."

She castigated her foolishness. Her sex applauded his firmness. Tomorrow she'd have felt modest discomfort during lunch with her mom. Instead, her welted bottom would deliver definite hurt. Dropping her gaze, she said, "Yes, sir. I'm very sorry."

"A better attitude, Kate."

Found wanting, his compliment melted her compliant sex.

Nodding at their bed, he commanded, "Bend over."

In her crisp white underwear, his jeans and shirt stressed his command over her. She lowered her arms onto their smart, folded ruby throw. No appeals could prevent her pain. Spreading her fingers for support, the cane pressed against her panties. Its dense presence pulsed deep fear. Recalling her uncontrolled outburst, she dropped her head, studying their white quilt.

"I won't excuse you, Kate."

Her brain dripped potent respect into her body, soaking her sex in passionate need. The thick rattan withdrew from her panties. A savage whistle followed. The cane exploded against her skimpy cotton, its heavy impact reverberating through her bottom. One second became two before a brutal fire shot through her backside. Rich, wide burn unleashed punishing pain against her inner strength. She clawed at the quilt, hurt intensifying into soaring agony.

Watching her struggle, he admired their punishment cane's incredible power. "You rushed ahead without considering the consequences."

She soaked in his scolding, sweeping it towards her thick burning line. He was right. The realtor would realize she could pay the asking price. The rattan rested lower on her bottom. Fearing its terrible impact, she mustered her courage. Gentle taps predicted punishing pain. Arriving fast, its violent crack echoed off their bedroom walls. Ferocious flames scorched her skin. She panted, scrabbling her fingers to spread her suffering.

"You will not lie to me."

She held her panty-clad bottom still. She'd lied. The cane seared its wide streak across her cheeks, delivering vicious heat. She swallowed its sincere mark, accepting its fiery pain. It needed to hurt her. "Sorry, Ben," she said.

A warm hand rested on her bare back, his kind touch soothing her unavoidable agony.

"I know you're sorry, babe," he said.

She trusted in his resolve, embracing its certainty. Hard strokes filled gaps between her lines. Fiery linear assaults on her skin built. Merciless strokes maximized her suffering.

"You should have appreciated your original sentence. Six ordinary strokes would have stung. Instead, you're getting thrashed. You've only yourself to blame."

She committed his scolding into her heart. She deserved his tough sentence.

He studied her bent bottom. Broad red ribbons glowed through her white panties. Lower lines spread across her bare cheeks. He must add four excruciating strokes. Despite her pain, he wouldn't lessen his promise. He could cane her thighs, delivering painful disgrace during lunch with her mom. Deciding to keep that embarrassment in reserve, he said. "I will not permit you to question your discipline."

The cane shot into her deserving cheeks. She bore the brutal agony, her self-respect soaring. Without warning, the flexible rod struck her proud bottom. Fresh fury spread between tight lines. She panted into the quilt, sorrow overwhelming her. She pictured herself standing in her panties, questioning his decision. The cane tapped the crease between her bottom and thighs. She braced, tensing her whole body. Shame spread through her curves, relaxing her. She deserved this. The rattan met her willingness. Lethal heat steamed into her delicate skin. Guided by fierce guilt, she cried, "Harder."

The rattan struck, expanding her sensitive welt. Clenching her teeth, she worked through her double stripe. Releasing her tight jaw, she breathed, "I'm sorry, sir. Very sorry."

Abandoning the cane, he swept an arm under her bent body, pulling her up into his arms. Held tight, pleasure suffused her skin, burrowing into her body. Calm in his arms, she whispered, "Thank you for punishing me."

"I had to be hard on you, I'm afraid," he murmured.

"Shh. You were right. I'm sorry, I argued. I deserved it."

He squeezed her tight, sliding his palm down over her burning stripes. "Gorgeous panties."

His dominant touch thrilled her sex. She pressed hard against him, feeling his manhood honor her humility. His firm fingers slipped beneath her long chestnut hair, unsnapping her bra. Skimming it from her shoulders, she dropped it. Tucking her thumbs into her frilly waistband, she slipped her white panties to the floor. Naked, she pressed against his jeans, grinding her need into his hardness.

Growling, he thrust his jeans down, watching her sashay naked towards their bed. With Olympic speed, he unbuttoned his shirt, capturing her before she climbed onto the bed, lifting her into his arms and drawing her on top of him as he fell back onto their bed.

She straddled his hips, her palms on his solid chest for support, kissing him. Shuffling off his white shorts beneath her, he gripped her tiny waist. She rose, burying his hardness inside her. Plunging down onto him, she targeted his manhood, where it gratified her. Broad relief soothed her agonizing behind.

His electric touch tormented her nipples, driving desperation into her sex, demanding deeper pleasure. "You thrashed me. Our punishment cane," she panted, poised upon her self-esteem, tantalizing herself with her words.

"You needed punishing."

His tough tone threatened her poise. Teetering above her climax, she said, "My mom used to stand me in my panties under our apple tree for punishment. I dreamed she'd stripped me for a public whipping." Risking her fragile control, she panted, "This was worse."

His hands gripped her painful butt. "You deserved it," he said.

His unrepentant attitude lunged into her, forcing a violent climax. Orgasms crashed through her, consuming his deep thrusts. Her pleasure poured over his explosion, waves of joy cascading through her core, driving her down into his protective arms.

Her heart slowed on his solid torso as her pride returned. She pictured facing her mom in the sun-drenched glass restaurant tomorrow. She'd sweep her loose white short skirt below her burning butt, smile wide and sit on her caned cheeks. A deserved public punishment. Her head on his shoulder, she whispered, "Thank you for being hard on me. Lunch will prove uncomfortable. It serves me right. I love you."

"I love you too, and that island."