The firm muscle beneath Danny’s belly and ribs shifted slightly as Easton adjusted. He didn’t have the same shape as Wilbert, but he was similar enough in build to make Danny’s throat tighten.
Easton’s palm pressed between Danny’s shoulder blades. The touch was warm, sure, and anchoring. Like it belonged there.
The first slap landed with a crisp crack.
Danny heard it before he truly felt the sting. A sharp, perfect crack that echoed against the walls of the room like punctuation. Then heat bloomed across his ass. He squeaked, but it was more from surprise than pain. He bit his lip hard. But when Easton rubbed over the stinging flesh, a trembling exhale escaped his chest.
He tried to keep still.
Tried not to squirm or press back into that touch.
Tried, and failed, not to want more.
The next blow landed.
Another. Then another. Methodical. Controlled. Not cruel.
Easton’s hand peppered his backside, never falling in the same place twice, but the heat built quickly. Danny squirmed, unsure if he wanted it to stop or keep going.
The slaps came steady now, not brutal, but purposeful—each one landing with a precise sting that echoed through Danny’s skin and sank deeper, stirring places he didn’t want to examine too closely. His breath hitched again. His thighs trembled. And still the tears stayed buried, locked behind a wall his grief had mortar-sealed shut.
Pain radiated outward from his ass, hot and prickling, and his cock swelled.
He hated himself for it. Hated how the burn and the helplessness made him ache, how his body misfired want instead of release. His stomach clenched as he tried to press down the need rising with every strike.
But his hips had other ideas.
One slow grind. Then another. The seam of Easton’s trousers was rough against the underside of Danny’s cock, but it was something, and he was desperate for anything to take the edge off the chaos he couldn’t bleed out in tears.
Danny didn’t even realize he was dry humping Sir’s leg until Easton went still beneath him.
A pause. A breath. Then?—
Crack!
The swat landed low, just below the curve of his butt, searing across the top of his thigh like fire. Danny jerked and howled, a ragged, broken sound that filled the playroom like a siren. His hands scrambled for purchase, grabbing Easton’s ankle again.
“Bad boy!”
Danny froze.
Shame slammed into him so fast it stole his air. He hung his head.Sir Easton said no sex.His voice cracked around the words. “I’m sorry.”
“I know, babyboy,” Easton murmured. “But this one is for your heart, not your cock.”
Another swat. Then another. The tempo picked back up. Danny pressed his face against his upper arm and kept his hips still, as he absorbed the slaps. His breath stuttered out in little gasps. His body vibrated with shame, pain and longing. Every muscle in him was strung taut, and he had no idea if he was about to scream or sob.
Maybe both.
The next strike hit just to the side of the last, waking up every nerve ending with a jolt. Danny whimpered, not from the pain but because his chest ached so bad now. He felt too full–too tight. He wanted to cry. Needed to cry. But the dam wouldn’t break.
He sucked in a ragged breath, then another. Sweat beaded at the nape of his neck. His thighs quivered again, and his calves prickled. Every time Easton’s hand lifted, Danny hoped that the next blow might be the one to crack something open.
It didn’t.
Slap.
Slap.
