He heard the words and froze.
“Go get the paddle, boy.”
Charles knew better than to argue. The moment the front door shut, he'd let his mouth run wild. Bratty, defiant—pushing limits just to see if he could. Now he knew he couldn’t.
He walked slowly to the study. The paddle waited on the mantle like a warning. Polished oak, holes drilled through it for extra sting. He hated it. He craved it.
Returning to the den, he saw the chair already pulled out from the wall. The top sat calmly, sleeves rolled, expression unreadable.
Charles offered the paddle with both hands.
“Pants and underwear down,” came the next command.
As he obeyed, his heart pounded. There was nothing playful now. Bent over, bare, and exposed, he gripped the edge of the seat. The first swat landed—hard, echoing, unforgiving. He gasped.
By the fifth, his eyes stung. By the tenth, his breathing was ragged. At fifteen, his resolve cracked.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “Please—”
“Almost there,” the top murmured.
Twenty strokes in total. Not fast, not cruel—but firm, measured, and deserved. When it was over, Charles was pulled into strong arms. His head rested on the top’s chest, tears soaking into cotton.
“You did well,” the top whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple. “And you’ll remember this next time you want to test me.”
He would.
And he wanted to.
No comments:
Post a Comment