And I want to spend hours watching his lips as he talks and thinking about the fact he said, “Mm, must be delicious in that case,” when I told him his smoothie tasted like ass.
That’s what he said. Can you fucking believe it?
As if I wasn’t already having a hard enough time surviving being close to him, I’m now armed with information that lets me know for sure that Stuart Wiseman is a man who likes eating ass.
How the hell am I supposed to know that and be fine at the same time?
I’m starting to feel a whole bunch of shit. None of it is good, and all of it is coming at me fast.
“Would you like me to show you again? It’s a pretty tricky alarm system. I have to admit it took me a while to get my head around it.”
Oh, Jesus. This fucking alarm.I don’t bother trying not to sigh. “Nah, I’m good, thanks.”
“Okay, well, if you’re sure, why don’t you get ready for work, and I’ll drop you off on my way out.”
“Thanks,” I mumble as I clear the table and put the fucking placemats away.
“Be quick though. I told Beth I’d pick her up at ten, and you know what traffic is like. Beth hates waiting, so no dilly-dallying. Forty-five minutes, and we have to be out of here.”
See?
The man says things like dilly-dallying. And Ilivefor it.
That’s the kind of shit I’m dealing with.
Once in my room, I sit on my bed and think long and hard about asking Stuart to spank me. I want it. I want it so much I can almost taste it. He’s said on more than one occasion that if I want something, I should ask for it. I know he wouldn’t mind. My pride won’t allow it though. The way I’m feeling now, I have a hundred percent certainty that if he puts me over his knee, I’ll come from the feeling of my dick trapped between me and his thighs. Hell, I might even come from him pulling my pants down. Just the feeling of a waistband scraping down my shaft would probably do it.
If that happens, I’ll die. I know that might seem dramatic, but you’ll just have to take my word for it. I won’t survive it. I’ll be dead, and Stuart will have to explain how I died to my mom and dad.
Actually, that might serve him right. Might be just what he deserves.
My dick is so engorged it’s turned bright red. I reach for it tentatively, but it’s so sensitive it hurts to touch it. Ordinarily, I’d push through just to nut, but I can hear Stuart pottering around in his room, and it’s throwing me big time.
It doesn’t feel like I’ve been in my room for all that long, but I must have been because Stuart calls, “Ten minutes, Elliot. Are you almost ready to go?”
Shit!
I fly to the bathroom and jump in the shower before the water runs hot. The cold water knocks the breath out of me, leaving me hyperventilating as I scrub every part of me that can bear scrubbing. I’m moving faster than I’ve ever moved in my life. I’m flustered though. I’m flustered as fuck. Stuart leaving, the mad rush to shower, the cold water, and my dick problem all culminate into the makings of an epic disaster.
Stuart’s husky voice beats at the door. “Five minutes,” he says. There’s a tap at the door and then another one. It spikes my anxiety and punches my anger clear out of the stratosphere. “Are you ready, Elliot? We have to get going.”
I leap out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my waist and yanking the door open, and I proceed to unleash the entire contents of my mood on Stuart.
“I’m moving as fast as I fucking can!” I yell. “Stop rushing me! It makes me go slower. If you don’t want to wait for me, don’t. Just fuck off and leave me. I’ll take care of myself. I was fine before you, and I’ll be fine without you.”
Stuart’s jaw drops open. He’s still for a moment, and then he moves like lightning. He rips the towel off my waist and flings it on the floor, giving me a full second or two to appreciate the mortification of my head-to-toe nudity.
I can’t tell if what happens next happens slowly or fast.
Stuart plants his left foot on the edge of the bath and throws me over his knee with such ease I’d be impressed if it wasn’t happening to me. I find myself butt naked, dangling precariously over a no-nonsense knee. Stuart leans forward, pressing his weight down on me, and plucks the bath brush from where it hangs. He huffs once or twice as he struggles to untangle it from the clawed grasp of the faucet. Before my foggy brain has registered his victory, he applies the brush to my bare backside. The crack when it lands is so loud that the sound of it makes me jump before the pain even hits me.
But, oh God, when it hits me…it hits hard. It’s a deep, dull thud. A sting so bright my eyes start watering instantly. Stuart doesn’t pause. He’s a man in a hurry, after all. He lays into me stroke after stroke, each one as hard as the last. Maybe harder. My legs tense and kick back stiffly, bicycling pathetically in mid-air.
The chilling splat of timber on wet flesh bounces off the bathroom tile. So do my cries. They’re long but not thin like usual. They’re full-bodied and loud. Frantic. Feral. I hate them, but I don’t even try to stop them. I know when I’m beaten, and believe me, right now, I’m beaten soundly.
He sees to me thoroughly, less methodical than usual, landing some blows on my thighs and others plum in the middle of me. The ones on my thighs make me shriek. The ones in the middle? What those do hardly bears repeating.
The pain from each swat sets skin and muscle alight. It’s horrific. It’s hideous. It’s easily the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced. The ache is overwhelming.
