Then it was gone, dragging a sad sound from him.
The next blow landed just below the curve of his bottom, right in the crease, stealing any thoughts of Enzo’s hand on his aching cock.
He wheezed at the searing pain. “Two,” he choked out.
The crop slicing through the air made for a sinister whisper, the crack gunshot loud as it connected with his sweaty skin. The sound he made was both embarrassing and pitiful—somethingbetween a yelp and a whimper—but he couldn’t help it. Somehow, it was worse on wet skin.
He blinked back tears as his heart bounded against his ribs. “Th-Three.”
He waited for the next blow, but instead, the bed dipped, Enzo soothing his palm across Seven’s forehead, sweeping his hair from his damp skin. “Color, baby?” he asked, his real voice bleeding through the sugary sweet one that had Seven’s emotions turned up to a thousand.
He couldn’t stop the trembling. It had to be adrenaline. Or fear. Or arousal. Or all three, braided tight in his bloodstream. “Green.”
He jumped when Enzo’s fingers gently played over the wounded flesh of his bottom. “You’re doing so well for me. I wish you could see how you look right now, three strokes in and already so ruined. My pretty baby.”
Seven wanted to curl himself up in Enzo’s words like they were a soft blanket. But there was no time.
The next two slaps came back to back, criss-crossing each other, dragging a desperate sob from him. The sting of his humiliation was almost worse than the one across his backside. Enzo was right. There was no way he’d have taken more than ten. He was fighting for his life, vulnerable, the leather biting into his skin. Enzo could do anything he wanted to him.
“Forgetting something, baby?” Enzo asked, thumb dragging from Seven’s rim to behind his balls.
Forgetting? Forgetting what? He couldn’t think. His thoughts were a plastic bag caught by the wind, constantly just out of reach.
Enzo made another disappointed sound. “Do we need to start over?”
Counting. He was supposed to be counting.
“Four. Five,” Seven corrected quickly, everything coming into stark relief at the idea of starting over.
“That’s my good boy.”
The burn lingered, a spreading warmth like ink bleeding through paper, but Enzo’s praise burned brighter. It cut through the pain and the noise. It made it all worth it.
“You’re doing so well for me. Only five more.”
Five?
God, how had it only been five?
Well, six, really, but apparently, Enzo wasn’t counting the first one, though Seven felt each one of them etched into his swollen flesh like tattoos.
Another sob threatened to escape, but he caught himself, panting through it, trying to pretend it was just a breath, just the rhythm, not emotion, not something he couldn’t handle.
He flinched, anticipating the next blow, teeth bared, not in defiance but desperation. He didn’t want to appear weak in front of the older man.
“Breathe,” Enzo soothed, guiding him with a hand between his taut shoulder blades. “Just breathe, baby. In through your nose…hold it…out through your mouth. Good. That’s good. We’re already halfway there. You’re doing so well. I’m so proud of you.”
Seven choked on the emotion clogging his chest at Enzo’s words, trying to quell the way his insides shook as the salt-sweet scent of sweat and anticipation clung to the air like smoke. Enzo’s hand disappeared, his weight shifting.
Seven whined a moment before another blow landed, setting fire to his already stinging skin. It was like death by a thousand cuts. Surely, his skin had been flayed open. Surely, that was blood running down his thighs and not perspiration.
Every subsequent slap of the crop had him drifting further and further from himself, his awareness melting like candlewax until there was nothing but the knife-sharp pain of Enzo’s punishment and the soft crooning praise that had tears flowing into the sheets below.
By the time he managed a slurred “Nine,” his thoughts were as wispy as spiderwebs—thin, fragile strands breaking apart with every slap, every praise, every soft drag of Enzo’s hand.
It took longer than it should have for Seven to realize the annoying keening sounds were coming from him, but he couldn’t stop them even if he wanted to. It was like he had lost all control of his body. He would have laughed if he was able. He’d handed total control to Enzo, and the older man was giving him everything Seven had demanded of him.
“One more, sweet boy, and we’re all done. Color?” Enzo asked.
