“I’m sorry.”
He let go of my face. “I know. Take your coat off.”
I didn’t argue.
Didn’t hesitate.
I slipped my coat off slowly, fingers clumsy for once, and set it aside. My boots followed, left by the door in a neat pair that felt at odds with the tension crawling up my spine.
“Come here.”
I obeyed.
Each step toward him felt heavier than the last, like I was walking into something inevitable.
He didn’t touch me right away, just watched me stop in front of him, close enough that I could feel the heat of the fire at my back and the far more dangerous heat of him in front of me.
“I need you to understand that you’re being punished for lying to me, drugging me, and putting yourself in unnecessary danger by sneaking out. You are not being punished for having needs. Okay?”
My hands curled at my sides, and I nodded. “Okay.”
He reached out, closing his hand firmly around my wrist. “Come on. Couch.”
I let him guide me over, then pull me down across his lap when he sat. My heart was beating too fast and my thoughts were too loud.
“Hands on the floor,” he instructed.
The position was familiar, and so was the vulnerability that came with it, but I knew this would be different than my usual maintenance spankings.
Because this was a punishment.
“You’re going to take this,” he said, one hand settling at the small of my back. “And you’re going to take it properly.”
His words hung in the air, heavy with promise and threat, as his free hand moved to the waistband of my pants. My body tensed across his thighs, but I kept my hands planted on the floor, fingers splaying against the rug for balance.
Wes pulled my pants down. The fabric scraped against my thighs, bunching at my knees before he shoved them downfurther, all the way to my ankles. I kicked instinctively, trying to free my feet, but he pressed his hand harder into my back, pinning me in place.
“Stay still,” he growled, voice edged with that controlled fury I’d seen in his eyes earlier.
Next came my underwear—simple black briefs that did nothing to hide how my body was already reacting, my cock twitching half-hard against his leg. He didn’t hesitate, gripping the elastic and peeling them down roughly, exposing my ass to the room’s warmth, and leaving me bare from the waist down, my balls hanging out and my hole twitching in nervous exposure.
I swallowed hard, heart pounding so loud I swore he could hear it. “Wes…” I started, but he cut me off with a smack to my thigh.
“Quiet.”
He grabbed the hem of my sweater, the soft wool bunching as he pulled it up. I lifted my arms without thinking, but he stopped midway, yanking it only high enough that the sleeves tangled around my wrists, trapping them together in a makeshift bind. The fabric stretched tight across my shoulders, restricting my movement, my chest now exposed too—nipples hardening in the open air, torso arched awkwardly over his lap.
“Fifty,” he announced.
I nodded, my bound wrists straining against the sweater as I braced myself. The first hit landed without warning—a solid, open-palmed crack against my right ass cheek. The sound echoed in the room, the pain blooming hot and immediate, my skin tingling under the impact.
“One,” he said.
I felt immense relief that he wasn’t making me count them myself. I counted our daily ten each morning, but ten was a whole lot different than fifty. Usually, by the tenth hit, I feltfloaty and grateful and calm despite the stinging. Fifty… Well, we’d see.
The second came down on the left, harder, the force jolting my hips forward against his thigh. My cock rubbed against his pajama pants, sending an unwelcome spark of pleasure through the sting.
“Two.”
