Something in his eyes sparks, his pulse visible in his throat.
He knows what that means.
He turns, giving me a view of his perfect, delicious ass, and I can’t wait to see it in my preferred shade of red.
When he opens the closet, the toys hanging on the inside of the door sway slightly from the movement. It’s a neat row of leather and wood—crops, floggers, paddles, and the slender line of the cane at the far end. His eyes move over them as his hands shake with anticipation.
“Choose one. Bring it to me.”
He hesitates only briefly before he reaches out and runs his fingers along the collection.
He stops at the cane.
Lifting it carefully, he takes it off the hook. He’s seen the twenty-four inch intense impact cane plenty of times before, but he still looks at it as though it’s intimidating.
Turning around, he walks a little unsteadily across the room and stops in front of me, holding the cane between us in both hands. I don’t take it from him right away, instead reaching up and cradling his jaw, my thumb brushing his bottom lip that trembles under my touch.
“You want the cane, sweetheart?” I ask softly, letting the edge of my voice scrape over him.
“Yes, Sir.”
It took Jackson a couple of months to feel comfortable enough to bring back this side to our relationship. I was patient, of course. I never rushed him, and I waited for him to ask for it. He’s so good at that, asking for what he wants.
And he craves the hurt as much as I crave giving it.
Fuck, he hurts so beautifully.
Not with fear or resistance, but with trust. With anticipation. With the kind of surrender that feels like a gift every time he offers it.
And I give him pain because it brings him pleasure. Because it lets him let go, breathe, and feel free in a world that’s taken so much from him. Because with me, he never has to hide the way pain and pleasure twist together until they’re indistinguishable.
But we haven’t used the cane yet.
I’ve caught him peeking at it with curiosity a few times, but I know he’s been working himself up toward it.
“Are you sure?” I ask, leaning in and dropping my voice to a low murmur at his ear. A slow smile curves at the corner of my mouth. Possessive. Hungry. A little bit cruel. “It’s going to hurt like fuck.”
“Yes.” His breath stutters, and his eyes flutter half-closed as he whispers, “I want it, Sir.”
“Then you’ll get exactly what you want.”
I kiss him, deep and claiming and full of promise. When I pull back, I curl my fingers around the handle of the cane and take it from him.
“On the bed. On your knees facing the headboard.”
Jackson shivers, a full-body tremor of anticipation.
Fuck, I love him like this.
I lovethis.
The heat between us, the trust, the dark thrill blooming under my skin like a second heartbeat. The feel of the cane in my hand, solid, the instrument of Jackson’s ruination and liberation.
He moves and climbs onto the mattress, carefully like he’s afraid he might fall over. He settles on his knees in the center of the bed, his shaky hands in his lap.
My eyes stay glued on the arch of his back, the curve of his spine, as I slowly remove my shirt. I take my time, making him wait and heightening the anticipation. He starts to squirm, and I smirk to myself.
After laying my shirt with my jacket, I approach the foot of the bed. The mattress dips beneath me as I settle behind Jackson with my front pressed to his back.
