"Matthew," Claire says firmly. "It's been a long day. I've put a lot into all this stuff, and I deserve some payoff. Get the switch."
He nods and goes to fetch it, trying to not let his mind race at the prospect, trying to just focus on making his way to the shelf, getting the switch from it, feeling the thin, flexible little rod under his fingers, stepping back to Claire.
The sound of skin against cloth as she folds herself over the end of the couch. "Hand on me."
He complies.
"Move it down a bit; you're not tall enough to get a good reach from there."
She's right. Of course she's right. He moves.
"Okay," Claire says once he's satisfactory. "Let's go for four, to give it a try."
And he lets himself do it, lets his arm swing. Because he's not losing control. Claire, as she does so many nights when he's been stupid, has got him. And after all he's put her through, she really does deserve a chance to enjoy some experiments in her own taste.

The feel of the impact reverberating through his arm. The crack against her skin. The sound out of her throat. It feels so good. But she doesn't deserve to be hurt, but it's okay, because she's in charge, and it's her experiment.
So he does it again.
And again.
And again, and every strike makes him harder.

And the dark fire of echoes and scent tell him that welts are rising, burning, from her skin, and he wants to feel them under his fingers, but you can't just go around doing that--

"Touch," Claire instructs between clenched teeth.

Oh, thank God. Or is that too blasph--

"Matthew, I said touch." And Claire hisses between clenched teeth as he runs his fingers over the welts, every tiny rupture in the skin feeling like a masterpiece.
"Like what you 'see?'" Claire half-laughs hoarsely as she lets herself squirm under it.
"Yes," he answers.
"Good boy."