I want you to focus on healing…
…as soon as you’re better, you’re going to report to me in my study. I’m going to bare your bottom and bend you over…
And I’m going to administer six strokes of the cane
Six strokes of the cane
Six strokes of the cane
Oh, fucking hell.
That little scene has played on a loop for the past week. I’ve thought about it a hundred times per day since it happened. A hundred. A thousand. Maybe more. Every time I think about it, I get that feeling. The one that lives in the space between revulsion and rampant curiosity. The one that’s crazy. The one that’s hungry. Insatiable and greedy. The one that wants.
I creep out of bed, taking care not to wake Stuart. I get dressed and go straight to the bathroom. I lock the door and play one of the porn clips I’ve been watching on repeat for the past week on my phone. It’s probably unwise for me to keep watching this type of thing. It probably doesn’t help my case at all, but I can’t help it. Can’t seem to stop. Don’t think I want to. I hit play. Some poor British guy is bent over a desk with his pants around his ankles. A teacher-y type wearing a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows wields a cane. Blue-white cheeks quiver, a sad, anguished voice squeals as hot pink stripes are painted across his ass.
My dick is rock solid before the first stroke lands.
A soft tap on the door makes me jerk upright, and I stab at my screen frantically to stop the video and then stuff my phone guiltily in my back pocket.
Idiotic, as I know the door is locked, and even if it wasn’t, Stuart wouldn’t barge in, but we are where we are.
“Are you almost ready? We need to get going to urgent care. I want to get there before there’s a long wait.”
My knuckles are white as I hold on to the car door handle on the drive there.
They’re even whiter on the way back.
“A clean bill of health.” That’s what the doctor said. That’s what she gave me. She smiled happily, as if it was a good thing.
Stuart smiled very differently.
I’m wearing gray slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt. I rub the palms of my hands hard on my thighs, scuffing them on the scratchy wool fabric. I changed my clothes three times this morning, and if I keep sweating like this, I’ll have to change them again. Turns out I have no idea what you’re supposed to wear to a caning. Absolutely none. Not a fucking clue. Is it formal? Semi-formal? Casual?
Fucked if I know. Must be one of those things they covered in the week of school I missed.
I feel like a prize ass. Overdressed. Underprepared.
“Let’s get this over and done with,” Stuart says cheerfully, leading the way to the study. I trot beside him, legs moving fast and unsteadily. The doom and excitement scale is definitely tilting a little harder to doom at the moment, the heavy weight of apprehension swelling and twisting a little lower in my belly with each step I take.
I stand in the center of the room, arms stiff at my sides, as Stuart takes his good goddamn time clearing the desk. He takes his stapler and stationary holder, complete with the ruler and pale-pink highlighter, and moves them onto the shelf to the left of the desk. He moves his notepad too. And his potted orchid. And his paperweight. He makes a single trip for each item, making me want to scream.
I probably would scream if it weren’t for the fact that it’s suddenly dawned on me that I’ve made a huge, huge mistake. I have no idea how I got here. No idea how I let this happen. No idea what possessed me to think I could handle this.
I’m Elliot Fucking Gould—I can’t do hard things.
I can’t handle shit.
Everyone knows that.
Stuart straightens and looks at me sympathetically. My eyes skid off his like oil skidding off water.
“Elliot, remind me of your safe words.”
Ungh.
“Yellow and red,” I whisper, excitement spiking recklessly and trumping doom.
He gives a curt nod and a small smile. “Drop your pants.”
