“Just like this, alright?” I asked. “Don’t move from here. Keep your eyes open. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
He shifted his weight, and the cuffs clanked against the bar.
“I’m going to start gentle, but I won’t stay gentle.”
He managed a nod.
“My intentisto hurt you, Silas. I want to decorate your thighs with stripes so dark they’ll last for weeks.”
He whimpered, swaying on his toes.
“Ready?”
“Yes, Sir.”
I situated myself behind him with the cane. The position was far from ideal, but with his cock hard enough to stay out of the way, I reached around and tested the bamboo against the front of his thighs. A few gentle taps at first to check the angle. I adjusted as necessary, shifting a little to the side so I could have better access, then I landed a few test strikes.
Silas’s cock cried before his eyes did.
And I wanted to taste the mess from both sides of him.
“Sweetheart,” I whispered, rubbing my cheek against his, watching him watch us in the reflection of the mirror. I wondered what he saw when he looked at himself, if he saw the gorgeous man that I saw or if he only saw his own shortcomings. I’d ask him sometime, but not tonight.
“Sir.”
“I do love you,” I told him.
The cane whooshed as it cut through the air, and thenthwapas it landed hard against his skin. His knees buckled, and he jerked forward. All his angling shifted, the hook curled into him deeper, and I watched him alternate between trying to fight against the pain in his ass and the pain on his thighs. I waited while he settled himself, one thin bruise already blooming across his legs.
“How many years did you work for your father?” I asked.
“Eight, Sir.”
“Eight, then. Eight years of wasted potential.” I swung the cane again and again. Two times in rapid succession, very close to the first strike. He still jerked against the impact but brought himself back to center much faster.
Four.
Five.
Six.
I don’t think Silas knew he’d started to cry, but after I licked the tears from his cheek, he understood. Lower, his cock streaked wet smears across his stomach, precum pulsing out of his slit with every breath.
“You like this,” I murmured.
Tucking the cane under my arm, I slid my hand down the front of his thighs and pushed my fingertips into the bruises that marked his otherwise blemish-free thighs.
He was a goddamn work of art.
A masterpiece.
“Very much, Sir,” he said softly.
“Two more,” I warned. “But first.”
Returning the cane to my hand, I tapped the tip of it against his balls, against his shaft. He dropped his head back before remembering himself and forcing his head straight, prying his own eyes open with nothing more than willpower and the need to serve.
