Sweet Jesus.
I’m shitting myself,andI’m rock solid.
How is that possible?
My fingers feel thicker and slower than usual, almost numb like they’re too cold but tingling with heat at the same time. I struggle with my top button and make a slight hash of pushing my pants down, getting them tangled with my underwear from my amateurish efforts. I wrestle with them for a second and then take them firmly in both hands and shove them down hard, scraping my skin but pleased with my effort.
This is no time to make more of an ass of myself than I already have.
“All the way off,” says Stuart, all business. “Fold them and put them on the chair. You won’t be needing them for the rest of the day.”
God.
It’s not just me, right?
This is hot in a very weird way, right?
Riiight?
“Elbows and palms flat on the desk,” he says when I’m naked but for my shirt and socks.
I look down at the desk, suddenly intensely interested in the large desk calendar on it. Maybe if I read all the entries, that would buy me some time. I crane my neck as I try to read Stuart’s small, untidy scrawl. The pen marks are black. Jet-black. The paper is thick and creamy. Heavy linen. High quality. I place my right palm down on it hesitantly and then the left. I lean onto my elbows and watch as Stuart opens the narrow drawer on the other side of the desk and pulls out the cane.
It looks light in his hands. Supple and pliant. He holds it at both ends and bends it. The rod arcs.
Excitement and doom are neck and neck.
He moves behind me, and I can’t breathe. A steel cage exists where my lungs used to be. Can’t hear either. Every sound in the room is drowned out by the sound of my heart. Rabid. Fast. Fighting to break out of my chest.
“Elliot,” Stuart says softly, tongue swirling around the letters that make up my name. I relish the sound of every one of them. “I haven’t been scared like that since God knows when. Watching you fall,” He pauses and his jaw clicks. “I haven’t felt fear like that in years. Years and years. In fact, I can’t remember a time I’ve ever felt like that. Helpless. Watching. Unable to move fast enough to help you.” He’s silent for two beats. “You could’ve hit your head. You could have hurt yourself badly. Itoldyou not to do it.”
Suddenly, we’re not playing a role. This isn’t a sexy teacher-naughty boy roleplay. It’s real. It’s fucking real. Actions have consequences. I’ve heard people say it all my life. I know it. I understand it. Or, I thought I did, but maybe I didn’t because up to this moment, I’ve never felt it—the weight of having someone who cares about you. Someone who hurts when you hurt. It’s almost unbearable.
“Do you understand why I’m caning you, baby?” His voice is soft now.
“Y-yes, Daddy.” He absorbs my response but doesn’t answer. It’s quiet for so long that I realize it’s still my turn to talk. “I-it’s because I d-deserve it.”
I mean it. I don’t kind of mean it. It’s not what I think I should say. I really mean it. I’ve been gaily skipping through life, keeping people waiting, letting them down, getting myself into shit and not thinking about anyone else. I’ve done it all my life. Until this very second, no one’s ever truly made it their business to stop me.
“That’s right,” he says quietly. “You do. But, and listen up, little boy, because this is important. Even though this is serious and even though you willfully disobeyed me, those safe words you mentioned earlier,they apply. If you need them, you use them. There’s no worse way you could ever let me down than needing them and not using them, okay?”
My hips squirm. I feel the intention. The meaning. The truth in his words. “Yes, Daddy. I understand.”
“Good. Then count.”
For a brief moment, I’m acutely aware of every inch of my body. Heart, brain, muscle, bone. I feel it all. Palms, elbows, spine, skin. I feel every tiny hair prickle. I feel every breath of air. All of it. All of it’s close. Heavy. Compact and dense. I feel the light tap of the cane across my cheeks. One tap, then two. Soft, almost sweet. Almost reassuring, but not quite.
A soft song. A quiet whistle as rattan flies through the air. A light thud. A quick jolt forward without very much else. A nice little lull. The first stroke lands, and for a quick second, I almost feel giddy. I almost feel relieved. I almost think it’s not that bad.
Then it hits me.
A red-hot stripe of fire. A line across both cheeks that burns with such pure heat my mouth drops open, but no sound comes out. My arms give way and my legs kick back, frantic and helpless, totally out of my control as my hands scramble for purchase on the desk and my socked feet slip and slide as I try to find my balance. My eyes sting, and I feel hot everywhere. Hot and uncomfortable. Hot and right where I need to be.
“O-one, D-Daddy,” I splutter when I eventually realize who and where I am.
I right myself. Planting my feet and bracing myself. Another tap. A light one that makes me flinch so hard my head whips up. Stuart waits until I’m steady, until I’m in position, bent over, waiting to take it, albeit with knees knocking in fear.
The next stroke lands close to the other, half an inch or less below it. Lighting me up more. Lighting me up worse. Twin flames blaze a trail across my rear.
