“No, baby, I’m not angry with you,” he says and then sighs. “You know, that photograph has been up for so long that I forgot it was there. I knew without knowing, I think. It’s almost like I developed a kind of blindness to it. I was so used to it being there I stopped noticing it years ago.” He’s quiet for several long seconds. “It’s high time it came down.”
This time, the relief comes in a sharp burst, and there’s nothing resembling disappointment accompanying it.
“I replaced it with a photograph of Sadie,” I say quickly. “It’s not a great picture. The lighting isn’t all that good, and the printer at work was running low on ink.”
He chuckles softly. “I think we can do better than that.”
I feel empty and achy. A little too full and a little swirly from wine. My head throbs. I’m a contradiction. Verging on tears or a fit of giggles, I can’t tell which. Upset with myself and pleased with myself. Sorry I did something so stupid, and stupidly happy that the awful picture is gone. Relieved I haven’t been spanked, and suddenly upset about it as well.
“You can sleep in as late as you like, baby,” he tells me as he reaches over and turns out the light. “I have a few errands to run, so I’ll be out for most of the morning.”
“Okay, Daddy.”
“Did you remember to print off your bank statement today at work?”
“Yes, Daddy.” I gulp, ass clenching and heart squeezing hard. I’ve been so caught up in the Damien debacle that I almost forgot I have a reckoning coming my way.
“Good. We’ll go through it together when I get home.”
With that, he’s gone, and all that’s left is the dense weight of a promise he made weeks ago.
You’re headed for leather.
It turns me into a hard, muddled mess. Horny and happy and sorry and scared and glad. My dick is swollen and hard, my foreskin is pulled uncomfortably tight, and it’s difficult to think of anything else. I’ve been on high alert, expecting a spanking since I ripped up the picture, and my dick is way, way into that kind of thing. Plus, since the first time he fucked me, not a day has gone by without a repeat performance at some point in the day. Every night when he tucks me in, I lie in bed clenching and unclenching my ass, relishing the heady oversensitive feeling of being freshly fucked.
Tonight is nothing like that. As I hear Stuart move around in his room, I toss and turn, straining, aching.
Aching and aching.
I could touch myself. I know that. I could jerk my dick hard and fast. I’d probably get off in minutes. It would be sweet. Satisfying in the extreme. It would reset me and make me feel better.
Stuart would never know.
It’s not like he even told me not to.
My hand is inches away from my dick. I can feel the weight of it on my lower belly. I could move it, but I don’t. Even though I could, I can’t. Stuart has told me I’m good so many times that I’ve started to believe it. I want it to be true. I want it so badly it overrides everything else. Everything. Even my dick.
I want to be good for him more than I want for myself.
The realization hits me slowly and then hard and fast. It’s stark in its simplicity. It’s a blatant, blunt recognition that this is real. I’m not playing a role. I’m not doing what I do with Stuart for cheap thrills, a spanked butt, or neat little checks drawn next to my long list of kinks.
I’m a Daddy’s boy.
It’s who I am.
“Elliot, could you come and see me in the study?”
When I heard Stuart’s car pull out of the drive, I snuck downstairs and had breakfast: a homemade green smoothie and two poached eggs on toast. I’ve spent the rest of the morning hiding in my room trying not to think of bank statements and brown leather belts. I’ve been wildly unsuccessful. I can’t remember a day time has moved more slowly. My anxiety is off the charts. There’s a tight band of tension wound around me. It’s inside me too. Pulling this way and that. I’ve played out every conceivable scenario I can imagine will happen once Stuart looks through my expenses. I’ve played them on repeat. I’m breathless and wobbly, unsure if I’m unspeakably horny or flat-out afraid for the well-being of my rear end.
Most likely, I’m both.
I pad downstairs, running my hand lightly along the wall as I make my way to the study. I pause to put my shoulders back and ensure my head is held high before entering the study. Stuart is leaning forward in his chair, pouring over the pages I gave him. He has his ruler and pale-pink highlighter poised for action. He acknowledges me with a tolerant smile. I stand on the other side of the desk facing him, the definition of a lost fart. He doesn’t look up as he works.
I watch in churning dismay as the highlighter glides across the page, leaving a soft, pastel line in its wake. The third time he does it, he looks up at me and says, “Drop your pants.”
I gulp, almost gagging as I attempt to swallow gallons of nervous excitement and questionable arousal. Stuart keeps working as I stand there, more and more aware by the second that no one has ever felt truly naked unless they’ve spent long, endless minutes waiting pantless while their Daddy painstakingly calculates how many strokes of the belt they deserve.
“Who’s Maggie, and why did you pay her a hundred and twenty dollars last Tuesday?” he asks.
