By some miracle, he does. He must because he catches my wayward, wriggling arm by the hand and twists it onto my lower back. I gasp and splutter in relief, blinking hard to clear the mist blurring my vision.
He pulls my underwear down to my knees. He does it roughly, drawing a tiny, pained whimper from me as a cool blast of air hits my scorched cheeks. I struggle in vain, stopping suddenly when it occurs to me that it probably makes me look even more silly. The last thing I can afford is to look sillier. Trust me, I already look silly as fuck. My work pants are twisted around my ankles, my underwear are bunched up at my knees, and I’m currently all but mooning my dad’s best friend. Not only that, I’m doing it with an ass I’ve allowed him to spank the living shit out of.
It’s awful. I can’t stand it. I’m dizzy with shock.
I love it.
I hate it.
I love it so much I’m reeling from it. Hot and delirious and horny.
Oh God.
Don’t groan.
“That was quite the tantrum, wasn’t it,” he says.
A tantrum.Atantrum? Um, no, it was a very manly loss of shit. That’s what it was.
“Elliot, I want you to know that I know how hard it is to ask for what you need. I understand it. I get it. I do. But the arrangement between us is dependent on honest communication. I’m not a mind reader. If there’s something you want or need, you have to ask for it. I want us to get to the point where you’re comfortable asking outright, but until then, you can ask me in any way you feel comfortable. Whether that means having a hand over your face, looking away, or even texting me, I don’t mind. All I care about is that you communicate with me. Understand?”
I sniff loudly and nod my head slightly.
“Are you sure?”
I nod again, hard this time.
“Good. You’re welcome to ask me for anything you need, and we’ll discuss it calmly, but I need you to know that if you ever again talk to me the way you spoke to me tonight, I’m going to teach you the difference between a spanking and a thrashing. It’s important you understand that because it will be a lesson you won’t soon forget. Do I make myself clear?”
I curl my free hand into a tight fist and mash it against my lips so hard it feels like it might bruise.
Don’t groan.
Don’t moan.
“I-I understand, Daddy.” My voice is wispy and thin. It sounds nothing like anything I’ve heard come out of my mouth before. It also sounds familiar. I know it. It’s the voice that’s spent years whispering in my ear, painting pictures of things that exist, things other people have that I want, things I’d started to believe didn’t exist for me.
“I suspect you do,” he says sympathetically. It lulls me into a false sense of security. I go limp over his knees, letting go of the weight I’ve been trying to carry for so long. “But because this isn’t something we can afford to have any confusion about, I’m going to make absolutely sure.” His voice is silky and smooth. Soothing. It would be reassuring if it weren’t for the clear threat laced into his words.
I feel his hand in mine. Hot and twisted as they meld together on my lower back. A fleshy palm. Big, thick fingers. I tighten my grip on them, squeezing firmly, waiting, and hardly able to believe it when he squeezes back just as hard. I splutter and almost lose the short battle to swallow the sob threatening to break free. I’m victorious, but not by much.
He starts spanking me again. I’m shocked to find just how much my underwear was protecting me. If I thought what happened before was painful, God, was I wrong. This is worse. Much, much worse. The sounds I make are straight-up revolting. A sickening series of gulpy littleooohsandaaahsthat follow each smack. Every one of them lands crisply, stinging so much that my teeth chatter and clench, making me grimace as my chin quivers. Loud, tacky slaps echo around the room, bouncing off tile and glass, followed promptly by long, thin wails that escape me and gradually morph into words.
“I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry.I’m sorry.”
Even though it’s true, I’m acutely aware it’s not the only thing that’s true for me. Far from it. Pain sparks, sensors react, messages are urgently sent. The trouble is, somewhere along the line, somewhere between my butt and my brain, the message is scrambled. The coding is fucked. Pain swells, turning, simmering, changing from something sore and unpleasant to something quite different. I think the same thing over and over. I repeat it to myself like a mantra.
Don’t groan.
Don’t moan.
And for the love of all that is holy, don’t come.
The blows end abruptly.
“There,” he says softly. “You’ve been punished.” He finishes me off with a prim little pat on each cheek. A much-needed period at the end of a long run-on sentence. “I’m going to give you ten minutes in the corner to think about what happened tonight and what you can do to ensure it doesn’t happen again.”
I struggle to my feet, dizzy with an overload of emotion. I stand before him, swaying slightly and using both hands to pull the front of my shirt down to cover my dick. A thin ribbon of precum spills from my tip and slithers down my inner thigh. I screw my eyes shut and pray he can’t see it, then I lean forward, clumsily attempting to pull my pants up without toppling over. It shouldn’t be hard, but it is. My fine and gross motor coordination has gone straight to hell.
