They’re not what I expected, so it knocks my focus for a second. I recover as quickly as I can, but it isn’t easy. The fabric of his underwear is soft, probably expensive, stretching over the generous globes of his ass in a way that fills me with a fleeting sense of bewilderment about how I got myself into this.
The heat from my temper flows to my groin and my dick is momentarily confused about why Elliot pulled his pants down.
Ah yes.
I was a little flustered this morning when I spanked him for leaving his towel on his bedroom floor and told him that the next time I spanked him, it would be with his pants down. Come to think of it, I might have said I’d spank him on his bare bottom the time after that. I think I did. Not sure. There was a lot going on, and the lack of caffeine and how he looked in his flimsy pajama pants proved to be a bad combination.
Seeing him like this, eyes narrowed and surly, as he stands in the dining area with his pants around his ankles makes me question the wisdom of that decision.
Shit.
I have a weakness for this kind of thing that goes well past a desire to help a wayward boy. I should have known that about myself. I need to get it together, stat.
“Bend over.”
He places his hands on the table and leans forward at an obnoxious seventy-degree angle, making it clear he can’t even be bothered to bend over properly. My heart starts to thud. I feel more heightened than I already was. He looks back at me and then looks long and hard at the decorative plates that hang above the kitchen window. It’s not quite an eye roll, but the intention is there. I reach out and push him down, firmly but gently correcting his position. A small, spluttery sound leaks out of him, and he twerks his ass out slightly, causing the muscle at the back of his thighs to pleat deeply.
Oh Jesus.
I have a weakness for that kind of thing too.
I raise my hand. My arm quivers notably with the effort required not to lift it well above my shoulder. “Now, Elliot, what did I say happens to boys with bad attitudes?” He doesn’t answer, so I continue, “They get spanked. That’s what I said, isn’t it? Just to be clear, huffing and puffing, eye-rolling, and coarse language have no place in this home. I know you’re new to this, but believe me, boy, you’regoingto learn. Whether you learn the hard way or the easy way is up to you.”
I temper my swing and bring my hand down on one of his cheeks with absolutely no more strength than is strictly required. Another sound leaks out of him, and it’s even worse than the one before. I scrape my teeth hard against my bottom lip, trying to center myself.
Old habits die hard. Or should I say, they don’t die at all. My palm itches from the strain it takes to hold myself back. I see flashes of Elliot’s sullen face, shadowy eyes, and every contrary look he’s ever given me. The familiar dark tug of desire circles and finds me. It flows through my arms and legs, making them feel leaden and heavy. I ache for the sound of flesh against flesh and the heat of soft skin under my hand. I can almost hear the little grunts he’d make and almost see his skin coloring from milky white to deep, dark, mottled pink.
Wait. What?
No. No, no.
There’s no need for that. Goodness. Of course not. What a thought.
That’s not what the situation calls for. It’s not necessary at all. In fact, not sure if I've mentioned it before, but here’s something not many people know—a spanking doesn’t have to be hard to be effective. You might think it does, but it doesn’t. There are a whole lot of factors that make it a deterrent. It’s quite complicated, really. There’s a science to it.
There’s the humiliation.
And the humility.
And something else I can’t think of right now, but it’s valid and very important.
9
Elliot
Itshouldcomeasexactly no surprise to anyone that I’m the kind of guy who’s embarrassed myself more than an average amount. Way more. I kind of have a talent for it, to be honest. I could give a thirty-minute speech on the ways I’ve humiliated myself at the gym alone. It wouldn’t even be difficult. In fact, I could probably make a damn good go of it simply describing clashes I’ve had with the treadmill. I could probably narrow it down even further to cover only the numerous disastrous situations I’ve managed to get myself into when dismounting that shitty piece of equipment.
I could, but I won’t.
It’s not just at the gym either. It happens everywhere.
When I was eleven, our class went on a field trip to a farm just outside Carmel. We were learning all about how strawberries grow and how to take care of farm animals. It was mainly going fine. The farmer was nice, but I felt a little out of my depth because of some of the questions he was asking. Nothing too major though. Luke and Chase were raising their hands every few minutes and giving great answers. I could tell the farmer was super impressed with them by the way he started bobbing his head before they’d even finished talking. I started to get that feeling, the deep panicked yearning, the oldplease, please, perfect stranger, like me.
When he asked if anyone could name a breed of chicken, I didn’t hesitate. I raised my hand and did that little hop and jump you do when you really, really want to be called on.
I can still remember the swell of confidence as I proudly answered, “Fried!”
I remember the stunned silence that followed too. I remember that well. And I remember how red the farmer’s face went as he tried not to laugh. The worst of it was that Luke and Chase didn’t even laugh. They looked at me with big, worried eyes and never spoke of it afterward either, at least not in my presence.
