By the time Labor Day rolled around, Tyler was back in full brat mode.
The summer had been long, hot, and full of little moments that pushed Logan’s patience to the edge—late-night teasing, suggestive selfies while Logan was on work calls, and one memorable dinner where Tyler “accidentally” dropped a paddle from under the table.
But today?
Today was something else entirely.
Logan had invited a handful of friends over for a mellow pool party—drinks, burgers, music, and no drama.
Tyler had other plans.
He started the afternoon by cannonballing into the pool, splashing everyone, including Logan’s boss. Then he flirted outrageously with the cute neighbor in aviators, swiping his sunglasses and strutting around like a swimsuit model. And just when Logan thought maybe—maybe—he’d calmed down…
Tyler emerged from the pool, dripping wet, wearing a stars-and-stripes speedo so tight it squeaked.
He strutted past Logan’s chair, leaned down far too close, and whispered, “Bet you won’t spank me in front of your friends.”
Logan looked up from his beer, slowly, calmly.
“I don’t bet,” he said, setting the bottle down. “I act.”
The entire backyard seemed to pause.
Logan stood. Took Tyler by the wrist. And without a word, guided him across the patio, past the cooler and the grill, to a sturdy lounge chair in full view of the pool.
He sat down.
“Over,” he said.
Tyler’s eyes went wide. “Logan—”
“You wanted attention.”
“I didn’t mean this much—”
Logan yanked the speedo down in one practiced motion, exposing Tyler’s bare, wet backside to the sun, the pool party, and half the neighborhood.
There was a collective gasp.
Then: CRACK.
Logan’s hand landed hard on Tyler’s left cheek.
Then again. And again. Each smack echoed off the fence, loud and deliberate.
Tyler kicked and squirmed, but Logan held him in place, delivering a firm, thorough spanking right there on the deck chair, Tyler’s red ass on full display as people sipped their drinks and tried not to stare (they all stared).
Logan didn’t say much—just enough for Tyler and everyone else to hear.
“This is what happens,” smack, “when you brat,” smack, “during my party,” smack, “and try to challenge me.”
Tyler was breathless, humiliated, half-turned on, and totally owned.
By the time Logan let him up, Tyler’s cheeks were the color of fresh salsa, and his swim briefs hung around his knees.
Scattered applause broke out around the pool. A whistle. One guy raised his drink and shouted, “Finally!”
Logan stood, brushed off his hands, and calmly pulled Tyler’s speedo back up over his scorched cheeks.
“Next time,” he said in Tyler’s ear, “I bring the paddle.”
Tyler groaned, face flushed—but couldn’t stop grinning.
They walked back to the lounge chairs, and Logan handed him a cold drink.
“Now behave,” he said, sitting down.
Tyler gingerly lowered himself onto the towel.
“Might need a floatie for the rest of the day,” he muttered.
From across the pool, someone yelled, “Better than fireworks!”
Logan just smirked. “Labor Day tradition, established.”
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