“Look at you,” I whisper in his ear. “Already trembling. Nervous?”
His lips part. “I’m not…”
I bring the cane around and brush it over his chest, flicking it over his left nipple. He gasps and leans his back against my chest, sinking into the sensations.
“Don’t lie to me.” I keep my voice gentle even as a wicked smile tugs at my mouth. “Are you nervous, Jackson?”
“A little, Sir,” he says on a shuddering breath.
“You trust me?”
“Always.”
He doesn’t say it lightly, doesn’t give it away freely. So when that one word hits me, something dark and protective unfurls in my chest.
“Good. You’re always safe with me, sweetheart. You let me know if you can’t take it.” I trail the cane down his chest, across his stomach, letting the anticipation build in the air around us. “Because this isn’t about punishment. It’s about surrender. It’s about the way you come apart when you let go, the way you take pain and turn it into something beautiful.”
Lowering the cane even further, I sweep it up the underside of his shaft. He moans and shakes.
“And it’s about the way I hold you together when it’s over.”
Even though we both love what’s coming, that’s the part that matters most. The after. The safety.
The hands that hurt but also heal.
“Isaac, please…” he whimpers.
I suppose I’ve made him wait long enough.
Bringing the cane back up, I snap it against his chest. Not hard, barely a tap. But I’m familiar with the cane and know it hurts worse than the crop. Even a smack that light can sting.
Jackson’s back bows. “Ow! Shit!”
I chuckle darkly in his ear. “Change your mind?”
He pants and shakes his head. “No, Sir.”
“Good boy.” I place a kiss on the side of his neck. “Hands and knees.”
As I crawl backward off the bed, Jackson obeys, moving almost clumsily until he’s in position. I take a moment to appreciate his ass how it is now—round, full,pale. It’s certainly not going to be pale for much longer.
I step around to the side of the bed, lift the cane, and skim it over the globe of his ass, watching as goosebumps rise along his back. I want him to know it’s there. I want him to know it’s coming. At least for this first time.
The first strike is light, more sound than force. The crack of it against his skin rings through the room, followed by his soft, broken gasp as his fingers curl into the sheets.
I wait.
I always wait after that first hit, taking the time to study him like I would a complicated piece of text, searching for any signs or hints of true distress, a hidden or deeper meaning behind every twitch and breath. Each one he takes registers like a metronome I’m tuned to. I count them without meaning to. I watch the way his shoulders rise, the way his fingers flex when he thinks I might move again.
Eventually, his breathing steadies back out, at least as much as it’s going to.
“Color?”
“Green, Sir.”
I bring the cane down harder this time with enough force that draws a choked noise from him somewhere between a sob and a scream.
My entire body goes electric with that sound. It’s not only with arousal but something even deeper.
