Tyler spotted it the moment he walked into Logan’s apartment.
It was sitting on the console table by the window, placed with deliberate care. A sleek black riding crop—short, elegant, with a narrow leather tip that looked dangerously tempting. He eyed it as he tossed his bag on the couch, pretending not to notice.
Logan, lounging in the kitchen with a beer in one hand, saw the glance and smirked. “Curious?”
Tyler shrugged with fake indifference. “Didn’t know you took up horseback riding.”
Logan tilted his head. “I haven’t.”
He let the silence stretch, then added, “But I’ve been thinking about how you’ve been acting lately. Bratty. Testing limits. Ignoring bedtime, showing up late, mouthing off. Thought it might be time to try something... more refined.”
Tyler flushed, heat blooming in his chest and down below. “So, you’re gonna hit me with that thing just because I didn’t fold your laundry?”
“Not just for that,” Logan said, stepping forward and taking the crop in hand. “But it didn’t help.”
Tyler rolled his eyes but didn’t move when Logan pointed toward the foot of the bed.
“Kneel,” Logan said softly. “Hands behind your back.”
Something about the crop made Tyler obey quicker than usual. He sank to his knees, his heart pounding now—not from fear, but anticipation.
Logan circled behind him, dragging the leather tip slowly across Tyler’s shoulder, down his spine, letting it hover over his waistband. “This isn’t like my hand or the paddle. It’s sharper. I can be gentle,” he said, flicking Tyler’s thigh just hard enough to make him flinch. “Or I can make you beg.”
The first real stroke landed across Tyler’s ass. Not brutal—but precise. Sharp. He gasped, more from surprise than pain.
Then another.
Then another.
Each stroke was measured, spaced just far enough apart to let the burn settle before the next arrived. Tyler’s breath quickened. His back arched. The rhythm was intoxicating.
“You like this,” Logan murmured, tracing the crop along Tyler’s hip. “I can tell.”
Tyler didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He was too focused on the heat building in his skin—and elsewhere.
“Up,” Logan said finally. “Bend over the bed.”
Tyler obeyed, pants pushed down now, his ass glowing pink. Logan took his time, adjusting his stance like a rider settling into the saddle. The next strokes came harder—across the lower curves, then the tops of his thighs. Tyler hissed, toes curling into the carpet.
“You wanna come?” Logan asked, breath warm against his ear.
“Yes,” Tyler whispered, voice wrecked.
“Not yet.”
Logan delivered three more crisp slaps with the crop. Tyler shuddered, his cock pressed against the sheets, aching. There was no hand on him, no friction—but his whole body was thrumming, on edge.
Logan leaned down, pressed a kiss to the small of Tyler’s back, and whispered, “Good boys get release. Brats get denied.”
Tyler groaned.
But Logan wasn’t done. The crop landed again—lighter now, almost teasing. The sting had become part of the rhythm. And Tyler, squirming and panting, felt it building. No touch. No stroke. Just sensation.
He gasped. “Logan—Logan, I—”
And then he was shaking, muscles clenching, orgasm tearing through him as his cock throbbed against nothing but the bedsheets and the air.
He collapsed, spent, dazed.
Logan chuckled behind him, dragging the crop gently along his spine. “You just came without a single touch.”
“Y-yeah,” Tyler breathed.
“Guess it really is effective,” Logan said, tossing the crop onto the bed beside him. “Good thing I ordered the matching paddle.”
Tyler groaned, but he was already smiling.
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