By five, my ass was warming, each slap building on the last, my cheeks undoubtedly starting to redden under his hand. He alternated sides methodically, his palm connecting with a meaty thud that made my flesh jiggle. At ten, the burn was definitely intensifying.
“Fifteen.”
His fingers splayed wider now, catching the curve where ass met thigh, the pain sharper there, radiating down my legs. I clenched my hole instinctively, trying to absorb the impacts, but it only made the next ones hurt more as my muscles fatigued.
“Twenty.”
I whimpered, sweat beading on my forehead, dripping onto the rug. My bound wrists twisted futilely in the sweater, the wool chafing my skin.
Wes grunted in approval, but didn’t let up. Twenty-five hit like fire, my right cheek throbbing, probably already bruised under the heat. I could feel the imprint of his hand forming, skin swelling with each blow.
By thirty, I was sobbing but trying to be strong, my ass a deep, pulsing red, every nerve alight.
“I-I’m sorry,” I cried, feeling my mind start to slip.
“I know,” he murmured softly. “You’re over halfway there, babydoll.”
“I’m sorry, ‘m sorry, sorry,” I babbled brokenly, grinding against his leg without meaning to, the friction on my cock a desperate counterpoint to the agony.
“Forty.”
“P-p-please,” I stammered weakly, my face wet with tears, snot, and spit.
Still, he didn’t stop.
“Forty-five.”
I couldn’t manage to speak any longer, couldn’t even string together a thought. Everything was justWes, andsorry, andhurt.
“Fifty,” he said, his voice barely registering in my head.
His hand rested on my scorched skin, rubbing in slow circles that made me hiss through the tenderness.
“Good boy,” he murmured, the praise cutting through the haze of pain. Then, without warning, he scooped me up—strong arms wrapping under my knees and back, lifting me effortlessly. My bound wrists dangled uselessly, sweater still tangled, ass screaming as it pressed against his shirt.
He carried me through the suite, the short walk to the bedroom feeling endless with each step jarring my bruised cheeks. The door creaked open, and he laid me face-down on the bed, the cool sheets a shock against my heated skin. I heard him undress behind me, the rustle of clothes hitting the floor, then the nightstand drawer opening.
Wes knelt behind me, his hands gripping my hips, thumbs pulling my cheeks apart. I felt the cool squirt of lube directly onto my hole, then his fingers—two at first, circling the rim before pushing in knuckle-deep. I moaned, the stretch burning fresh on top of everything else, but he didn’t stop, scissoring them to open me up.
“This is for your own good,” he said, adding a third finger, twisting them deep, brushing my prostate until I bucked forward with a cry. My bound wrists pressed into the mattress, limiting how I could brace, leaving me at his mercy.
“N-no,” I think I said, although I wasn’t sure if the word had actually left my mouth or not.
“Shh,” he hushed, continuing to work me open slowly. “You need this.”
I sobbed and tried to wriggle away as a fourth finger slipped into me, the fullness making my vision blur.
He pulled me back onto his fingers, and started whispering praises that I couldn’t understand.
Lube slicked his hand, dripping down my balls as he pumped in and out, my hole clenching greedily around the intrusion.
“Relax,” he commanded, free hand smacking my tender ass lightly, reigniting the sting as I yelped.
When he suddenly withdrew, I whimpered at the emptiness, but then his whole fist pressed against me.
“Nononono,” I cried miserably, my brain finally realizing what he was about to do.
He pushed slowly, the widest part breaching my rim with a pop that tore a scream from my throat. Inch by inch, his hand sank in, filling me impossibly full, my walls stretching taut around his wrist.
