“I don’t think I’m cut out for physical labor. Couldn’t I get reassigned to another area, like, um, flower arranging? And those punishments. Corporal punishment isn’t really my speed. How about withholding dessert?”
“We don’t withhold food,” the doctor said sternly. “That would be cruel.” With that, he tossed his gloves into the receptacle with an elaborate layup move and left the room.
“You’ll be fine, dearie.” The nurse patted his naked knee. “You’ll adjust. Everyone does. And Tex is the dreamiest. I’d let him spank me any day.” He waggled his behind at Peyton, slapped it once, and then followed the doctor out.
Peyton got dressed slowly. He didn’t disagree about Tex’s general yumminess. If Tex were rutting into him and wanted to deliver the occasional swat, Peyton wouldn’t object. Admittedly, the sensation had been a weird sort of good. He’d very nearly gotten off on it. But now that his dick wasn’t hard, he couldn’t help feeling embarrassed and… victimized.
He shouldn’t have let Tex do that to him. If he were a stronger man, he wouldn’t have. He certainly shouldn’t have enjoyed it. Or cried either. It wasn’t like he’d been beaten with a two-by-four. Tex had only used his hand. Really, it must have stung Tex’s hand as much as Peyton’s ass, though Tex did have hands like leather. Strong and broad and commanding.
And now he was daydreaming about Tex’s hands, specifically about how they felt raining hellfire down on him. He wanted it again and also felt like he shouldn’t allow it again and especially felt like he would be happy to never muck out another stall. All that, and it was only day one.
The receptionist gave him a tube of cream to rub on his ass, which wouldn’t do any good at all as far as he could tell, and reminded him he was due back in two days for a follow-up. Peyton didn’t know whether to be impressed with the ranch’s professionalism or appalled by their tactics. If the guy at the club had been clear about how the place worked, he never would have come.
Only one item remained on his schedule for the day and that was dinner, which he figured he could manage. Ambrose was already at the table when he arrived, eyeing a serving bowl like there might snakes hidden under the mashed potatoes.
“I’m supposed to be avoiding empty carbs,” he said forlornly as Peyton slid into the chair next to him, trying not to wince. “Apparently potatoes contain very little in the way of actual nutrition.”
“Tasty though,” Peyton said, contrarily loading his plate with a heaping portion. He might have gotten his ass spanked but at least he was allowed to eat all the potatoes he wanted.
Ambrose reached for the platter of asparagus. “I can’t afford any more mistakes today. Not after what happened at lunch.”
Peyton had been in the process of forking a steak onto his plate, but he paused midway. “Rough afternoon?”
“You could say that.” Ambrose shifted uneasily. “How about you?”
“Very rough. I, uh, had to be punished.” He was hoping Ambrose would pony up some details about his own punishment, but he only nodded glumly. “What did they have you doing this morning?”
“Horse riding lessons.”
Well, that wasn’t fair. Peyton wanted to learn how to ride horses instead of cleaning up after them. He finished his meal as quickly as possible, then went back to his room and called Bettina to complain.
She listened to his rambling, whiny story about smelly hay and handsome cowboys, then said, “Wow, sounds like they worked you pretty hard today.”
He hadn’t told her about the spanking, though he wasn’t sure why not, so she only meant the actual physical labor Tex had put him through. But he’d definitely been worked. All over. She didn’t have to sound so surprised about it though, as if he’d never done a day of labor in his life.
“I’ve worked before, you know.”
“Have you? On what?”
“I work all the time. Forty hours a week.”
She laughed.
“Well, thirty.”
She was still laughing, he could tell.
“You’re in the building thirty hours a week, I’ll give you that. How much of that is work, I don’t know, but it’s definitely notworkwork. The most you exert yourself is taking out the recycling bin on Wednesdays, and that only requires exertion because of how many liquor bottles are in it. So I imagine you must be feeling pretty wiped out right now.”
Since she’d ended by saying something slightly sympathetic, he decided to ignore the taunting sarcasm that had come before it.
“I’m exhausted. Everything hurts. I can barely lift my arms.” Or sit.
“Take a bath, babe. Pamper yourself a little. After all, tomorrow is another day.”
Tomorrow was another day. And then another and another. Endless days, stretching out in front of him.
“What have I done, Bettina?”
