“Briefs and jeans up, boy,” Olivier commands, his voice soft but full of natural authority. “My number is written down inside the lunchbox. Call me.”
“Yes, Chef,” I answer, my head still spinning but a feeling of pure release making me feel like the luckiest Little in the world.
“Now get back to work!” Olivier laughs.
I will certainly get back to work, and I don’t need a Daddy to tell me that the last thing I want is to lose my job so soon after being given the opportunity. It might be a Little friendly crew, but when it comes to on-site spanking and wanking, I’m not sure that even the Construction Boys would be cool with that!
The rest of the afternoon passes in a hazy blur, my body humming with a mix of endorphins and residual sting.
The life of a Little, eh!
Every time I shift in the forklift seat, the fabric of my jeans rubs against my tender cheeks, a sharp reminder of Olivier's firm hand. I can't stop replaying it: the way he commanded me without hesitation, the cool gel soothing the heat he'd ignited,and then those skilled strokes that had me unraveling in literally seconds.
My face burns just thinking about it, but there's a deeper warmth too—a satisfaction that settles in my chest like a perfect nap with Lexi.
I throw myself into the work, hauling beams and sandbags with extra vigor, partly to prove I'm not slacking after... whatever that was… and partly to distract from the ache between my legs.
The crew's banter flies around me—Taylor cracking jokes about the free lunches, Lane ribbing Mikey about his pool skills last night—but no one mentions the chef's visit.
Or the sounds that might have carried.
God, please let the site's noise have drowned it out. Cranes groaning, hammers pounding, trucks rumbling… surely that covered my yelps and thanks.
By quitting time, the sun's dipping low, casting long shadows over the half-built frames. My muscles scream for a hot shower, but my mind's already drifting to that number scrawled inside the lunch box.
Call me.
Simple words, loaded with promise. I clock out with Xander, who gives me an approving nod—"Solid day, Danny. Keep it up."—and head for the exit, keys jingling in my pocket. The lunch box is tucked under my arm, unopened.
I'll savor it back at the hotel, maybe while texting Olivier.
Footsteps crunch behind me, fast and purposeful. I turn to see Taylor and Mikey jogging up, hard hats off, grins wide and mischievous.
Taylor's got that tanned, effortless swagger, his fleece zipped against the chill, while Mikey's bouncing on his toes like he can't contain his energy.
"Yo! Danny! Wait up!" Mikey calls, waving like we're old pals. Which, I guess, after last night's drunken assist, we kind of are.
Taylor catches up first, slinging an arm around my shoulders—casual, brotherly. "Dude, you can't just bolt without spilling. What the hell went down with the hot chef? We saw him march over to your corner like a man on a mission."
My stomach drops.
Spill?
They know? But how much…
I fumble with my keys, avoiding their eyes. "Uh, nothing much. He... brought lunch. Like he did for everyone." The lie tastes sour. These guys helped tuck me in with my stuffie last night. They're Littles too. But admitting I got spanked—and more—on site? In broad daylight?
Heat floods my face, and not the good kind.
Mikey snorts, falling into step on my other side as we walk toward the parking area. "Lunch,huh? Come on, man. The whole site heard those spanks echoing like gunshots. Sounded like someone was getting a proper tanning."
Echoing?
Oh crap.
My knees weaken, and I stop dead, staring at them in horror. "You... heard? Everyone heard?"
The site's big, but sound carries weird out here, bouncing off metal frames, amplified by the open space. I picture the crew pausing mid-hammer, exchanging knowing grins. Taylor, Lane, Xander—all of them knowing I was bent over, ass up, taking it from the chef.
