That realization should upset me. It really should. It doesn’t though. It sinks into my skin and my bones. It makes my dick so hard that with every additional slap that lands, the friction of jeans against dick doesn’t feel like denim on skin. It feels like a tongue fully extended and being used roughly against the head of my dick. Pressure rips through my body. Heady, heavy tension that squeezes so hard I slam my eyes shut and clench everything I have to stave off the orgasm threatening to undo me.
Even with the clenching, it’s too close. I know myself, and I know my dick, and I’m too close.
It’s a fucking emergency.
My dick throbs, swelling and straining, readying itself for the first surge. Pleasure and pain blend together as I take two shallow breaths. My mouth drops open, and I narrowly manage to stop any sound from escaping. Blood roars in my ears as I wait helplessly to come face-to-face with my miserable fate.
It doesn’t happen.
Everything stops. All sensation is completely removed with the abruptness of a Band-Aid being ripped off soft skin.
Stuart’s throaty voice finds me through the fog. “Up you get.”
I find myself vertical but still reeling.
I attempt to steady myself, looking up at him and instantly balking under his gaze. I’m shaking from head to toe, and I can hardly think from the shock of stopping so close to blowing my load. My cheeks are on fire, and I don’t only mean the ones in my pants. My face is burning hot too. So hot that my vision is tinged with red.
“Now,” says Stuart, almost kindly, “what do you say?”
My mind goes blank. Totally empty. There’s not a thought in my brain, but my lips move of their own accord. For the rest of my life, I won’t know if my response is a throwback to the hundreds of times adults used this exact tone to remind me of my manners when I was a kid or if Wyn’s dastardly words are to blame.
Either way, I’m even more surprised than Stuart to hear myself say, “Thank you, Daddy.”
His ice-blue eyes flare and take on a life of their own. His lips, which were pursed in somber displeasure, go lax.
I’d dearly love to look away, but my eyes are locked onto his, and there doesn’t seem to be any way for me to change that. The tension between us is so visceral and real that I can almost see it vibrating.
I stand helplessly, quivering and shivering, and just when I think I can’t bear it any longer, he reaches out and wraps a strong arm around me. He pulls me tightly against him. One arm is around the small of my back, and the other cradles my head to his chest.
I soften into his embrace with no conscious intent on my part. I soften and soften until I’m no longer certain if I’m holding myself up or if he is. My cheek is pressed firmly against him. The slight coarseness of his shirt scours my skin. I inhale, and suddenly, everything falls away, and all that exists are hot summer days, freshly mowed grass, woody herbs, and a mystical place I’ve never been.
The fuck?
Did that just happen?
“Teeth then bed,” he says when I finally pluck up the courage to look up at him. “Lights out in five minutes.” His tone softens, and the hand on my back moves two or three inches up my spine and down again. “We’ll discuss this in the morning.”
6
Stuart
ElliotisdownstairswhenI get down, dressed for work and sitting at the table with a bowl of granola in front of him. He’s wearing a deep plum shirt and a tie with a tiny floral design. It’s a pared-back look for him, but it shows smatterings of his usual flair. His hair is smoothed down, making him look younger than usual. His eyes glisten when he sees me, and he starts gnawing on a corner of his bottom lip.
On closer inspection, I note that he’s laid out two placemats, one for him and one for me. It’s been so long since I’ve felt the warm blend of pride and satisfaction it gives me that I almost don’t recognize the feeling.
He greets me with a slightly strident, “Morning!” and then looks away quickly.
He looks nervous and uncomfortable, and that’s the last thing I want for him, so I join him at the table without pouring myself a coffee. If I’m being completely honest, I feel a little nervous too. I’ve been around the block enough times to know a Daddy’s boy when I meet one, and believe me, Elliot is a Daddy’s boy in every sense of the word and then some. Everything about him begs for what I have to offer, but still, I know what I’m going to say is unconventional and a little unusual, especially given who Elliot is to me. There’s no telling how he’ll react.
“Now that we’ve both had some rest,” I say, “I’d like to talk about what happened last night.”
“Sure.” He says it as though he’s agreeing with me, but the look on his face makes it seem like a question. The tendons in his neck are pulled tight, and when he puts a mouthful of granola into his mouth, he chews it for an abnormally long time.
“Would you like me to go first?” He nods rapidly. He still looks incredibly nervous, but the tension around his eyes changes, not releasing all the way, but markedly. “All right. First, I want to assure you that I don’t usually spank boys unless we’ve discussed it beforehand. That’s not how it should have happened, and I apologize for that.”
His eyes widen and he lets out a quick, shallow breath. He looks more than nervous now. He looks scared. Even though I’ve never claimed to be an angel, quite the opposite in fact, scaring boys isn’t something I ever want to do. Scaring this boy, with his beautiful brown eyes and so many big emotions written all over his face, is unthinkable. Before I have time to reassure or check in on him, he starts to talk. And when I say talk, I mean splutter.
“I-I…it, uh, it wasn’t…” He flushes deeply from his neck to his hairline and rests his mouth heavily on his knuckles. I can tell he has something he wants to say, so I wait, giving him time and space to settle. He fidgets and twists his hand, pinching his lips between his fingers and looking down at the table. “I-I asked for it.”
