“Green.”
Leandro, now with a solid grip on the paddle, says to us both, “Your Sir will count out the blows because I don’t trust that you’ll be able to keep track, and I want you to feel free to cry and wail from the very painful impact. This is a safe space, Giovanni, one where you can truly let go.”
“Yes, Leandro.”
“Cominciamo,” he says and takes aim. The paddle comes down with a forceful thwack against Giovanni’s backside, landing squarely in the middle of both cheeks. Color blooms on his skin immediately. Giovanni groans and sinks deeper into his posture.
“Silvio?” Leandro asks, and I remember it is my job to count.
“One,” I say, my mouth dry.
Leandro continues with the paddling, his technique solid and unwavering, smacking the center of Giovanni’s ass with every hit, priming it for a much sharper pain. After ten swings he announces that he is flipping the paddle. Giovanni nods, fingers digging into the leather with both hands.
The next blow is a solid one—Leandro shows no mercy—and when he pulls back, there is a pattern of raised red dots like an angry rash across his buttocks. Giovanni whimpers and tears sprout in his eyes.
“How was that, sub?” Leandro asks.
“It was… really painful,” Giovanni gasps, trying not to cry.
“Color?” Leandro asks.
“Green,” he says, and there is a pause, where I realize Leandro is also waiting for my response.
“Green,” I say with a little less confidence.
Leandro continues, landing blow after blow on Giovanni’s tender flesh. Distantly, I hear myself counting while my gaze zeros in on the pinpricks of blood that bloom like a field of poppies across his golden skin. Before long, Giovanni’s whimpers escalate into cries, then wails, and then a deep keening noise I recognize from his sessions with Valentin. He squirms in my lap and tries to inch away, making it so that I must hold him more securely, but he does not safeword.
“You’re doing very well,” Leandro says to Gio when that round is thankfully through. Leandro’s temple is beaded with sweat, his bare chest and arms too, and there is an electric verve in his eyes. He lays one leather-encased hand on Gio’s head. “Ten more to conclude this session. Color, sub?”
“Green, Leandro,” Giovanni says resolutely, and I echo him. With my heart racing and body tense, it’s a lot to process, but it’s what Gio wants. More important, it’s what he needs.
Leandro resumes striking Giovanni’s backside with the smooth side as if swinging a bat, both leathered hands secure on the handle. The impact is deafening. I imagine what it must feel like against his already wounded flesh, like a brush fire blazing across his skin. Meanwhile, Giovanni’s sobs sound as though his very soul is being ripped from his body. My arms are sweaty where I hold him. His ass looks like a slab of tenderized meat.
“Thirty,” I hear myself say, relieved that it’s over. Giovanni, now a sobbing, sniveling mess, crawls into my lap and clings to me. Leandro sets aside the paddle and hands me a wipe for his bottom.
“To disinfect the wounds,” he says quietly.
I maneuver Giovanni so that I may gently clear away the droplets of blood. The wipe must have some antiseptic component because he hisses from the contact and braces himself against the couch while I complete the task. As soon as that’s done, he crawls into my lap again. Leandro brings us both a blanket and says, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Leandro leaves and I do my best to soothe him. I adjust our positioning so that I’m lying on the divan with him splayed on top of me, ass open to the air, blanket draped over his back, only. The skin is red and inflamed, still bleeding in some places. It does not arouse me to see it, and I don’t have it in me to fuck him right now, not if it might cause him more pain.
“It hurts, Sir,” he says pitifully and buries his face in my t-shirt.
“I know it does, baby, but you did so good. Sir is very proud of you for being so brave and telling Leandro what you need.”
“Are you going to fuck me now?”
“I don’t think that I can, sweetheart.” I place his hand over my soft groin.
“It doesn’t turn you on at all, does it?” he asks with a note of sadness. Perhaps he feels pity for me, or for himself.
“No, baby, it doesn’t. How about you? If you weren’t wearing the belt, would you be hard right now?”
“Probably. The fear and pain excite me. They remind me of my place, which is as a tool of pleasure and subjugation. Master stripped me to the bone, then breathed life back into me. I was remade in his vision every time.”
He sounds so wistful, and it makes me sad that I cannot complete the cycle for him. At my extended silence, he asks, “Does it still scare you, Sir?”
“Not as much. I’ve learned a lot since your Master did this for you, and I trust Leandro.” I think back to the beginning of the scene, the moments when I was briefly aroused. “I want to satisfy your needs, Gio, but it may take some practice and fine-tuning to figure out how.”
