Young man?
Young fucking man?
My cock thickens and swells so fast that my zipper digs into my skin. How does this asshole know what to say to make me like this? How can he possibly understand this about me but not understand that I need him to spank him like he means it? My skin and my brain and my lungs feel like they’re going to explode. My balls do too.
Hmm, can your balls explode?
Might Google that later to be on the safe side, but in the meantime, I’m done playing it safe.
“A spanking, huh?” I sneer. I lean forward aggressively and yank the bottom lid of one eye down, glaring at him pointedly, “D’you see the worry in my eye? Hmm? Do you?”
“I suggest you take a moment to get yourself together, boy, so you don’t say something you’ll regret.” He sits back in his chair and watches me thoughtfully. He looks so stern my insides twist and three or four little voices in my head start humbly suggesting I walk things back.
Of course I don’t.
“Something I’ll regret?Regret?Why the hell would I regret it? ‘Cause you’ll spank me? You can’t even spank hard. You don’t know how! Why would I care what you do?”
I see his face, stony and harder than I’ve ever seen it, and feel a deranged kind of pride that, for once, I’m not feeling stupid because of something someone else has said or done to me.
I’ve done something stupid all by myself.
“Elliot,” he says quietly, “remind me of your safe words.”
“Why would I do that? I don’t need safe words for what you do to me! I don’t think you know how tough I am. I’ve played water polo since I was twelve. I had a free ride at college until I…uh, never mind. I’m fucking tough. I bench press over three hundre—”
“You’ve already asked for a hiding, Elliot. There’s no need to beg.”
Oof
Talk dirty to me, Mr. Wiseman.
I’m momentarily knocked sideways by the fact he appears to have turned the room on its axis. I’m unable to answer, so he continues, “Safe words are nonnegotiable. They’re not just for you. They’re for me too.”
“Fine. Yellow and red,” I spit.
He places his knife and fork together and dabs the corners of his mouth with this napkin. He folds it and sets it down with care. He slides his tongue between his lips, moistening them, scraping his teeth against his bottom lip when he’s done. He doesn’t take his eyes off me the entire time. I keep eating. I chew and chew, but the meat, which was succulent and tender minutes ago, now feels like an old tire between my teeth. When I can’t chew anymore, I chase it down with a large gulp of water. I struggle through several more mouthfuls, trying to ignore the sound of Wyn’s voice in my mind. “Just say sorry. He’ll understand. Don’t make it into a big thing.” Luke’s with me too. “There’s no shame in making a mistake, Gouldie. Just admit it and move on. No one’s perfect. It happens to everyone.”
I open and shut my mouth a few times, but no sound comes out. My heart is beating so hard that I can feel my pulse in my tongue. When a mouthful of peas turns gritty and dry, I know I’ve gone as far as I can with this particular meal.
I put my knife and fork down, and my napkin too, mimicking Stuart’s actions without quite daring to look up at him. My hands shake as I do it, and I know he can see it. I feel his gaze on my neck and face, heating one side of my body, making me break into a sweat.
He scoots his chair back roughly. The jarring sound of timber scraping against timber makes every muscle in the lower half of my body clench hard.
“Come here.” His voice is like coarsely ground coffee.
It seems obvious that the sensible thing to do in this situation is to run.
I don’t.
Instead, I find myself on my feet, moving toward him as if I’m moving through water. Deep water. Water that comes to my waist and is littered with tendrils of weeds that wrap themselves around my ankles, slowing me down. The joints in my legs are spongey, almost lame. I move slowly, carefully considering the madness of each step.
As soon as I’m within arms’ length of him, he reaches out and takes hold of my belt, yanking it to the side so hard it pinches the skin on my lower belly. He’s sitting. I’m standing. He has to look up at me to make eye contact, but despite that, it’s clear only one of us is feeling small. And it sure as hell isn’t him.
My hands float at my sides as he pulls my pants down. He uses several rough movements, jostling me from side to side to work them over my ass, scraping them over my dick and balls as he does it. I’m not sure if my biggest problem at this point is that I can’t expel air from my lungs or if it’s the fact I’m inhaling way too fast. I have my eyes fixed on the floor, unable to look at him, starting to panic about what the hell I should do next.
Turns out, I don’t need to worry. A hand around my wrist and a hand on the small of my back are all Stuart needs to manhandle me with ease. I’m over his knee so fast I don’t even have time to think about how I got there.
He doesn’t say anything. Not a word. No patient scolding. No measured telling off. Just silence for a few seconds as I familiarize myself with the weight of my chest and belly pressing my dick heavily against his thigh. Then, a resounding crack as a hand comes down on my scantily clad flesh. His palm lands with such blinding force it knocks a startled squawk out of me. The next one does too. And so does the one after that. The pain is instant, seeping into my skin and rattling things inside me I’ve always tried really hard not to rattle. By the time I’ve collected myself enough to clamp a hand over my mouth, Stuart has landed on a solid, punishing pace.
