“What do you do when you come in?” D asked Tuesday night.
He pointed to the mat, which I was now several feet past. I sighed and backed up. I stood straight, clasped my hands behind my back, and bowed my head.
“You look mutinous,” he said.
“Huh? I’m not even doing any—”
“I’d like you to count out three minutes, then join me in the kitchen.”
I frowned. “Count out?”
“In your head or under your breath. Count out sixty seconds three times. I want you in the kitchen precisely at the end of the third minute. Start . . .” He glanced at his watch. “Now.”
He headed to the kitchen.
It took a lot of concentration to keep counting at the same rate. Sometimes I’d get distracted and slow down, then I’d have to speed up to even things out. I heard the squeak of a chair on the kitchen floor, then the clack of wood on wood. I realized instead of cutting off at sixty I’d kept counting and was now at eighty-six. Simple enough. I’d just count to one hundred twenty, then start over. Or figure out what one twenty plus sixty was. One eighty, right? But triple digit numbers took longer to say, so my timing might be off. I ought to just start back at one when I hit one twenty. This was so dumb. What was I, a stopwatch?
With an estimated ten seconds left to go, I started toward the kitchen. D was at the table drinking coffee, which smelled good. I thought about asking for some, and then I saw the wooden paddle on the table and reconsidered the wisdom of expressing any desire beyond a will to astonish him with my letter-perfect attention to his instructions.
He checked his watch. “Seven seconds off.”
“Not bad, huh?” I did think that was impressive, considering.
“I’d planned to give you ten with the paddle for the entrance you made. So that will be an additional swat for each second.”
“That’s so subjective, though. I mean, when were we starting—when you said ‘now,’ or the second after? And when were we ending? When I crossed the threshold into this room, or when I stopped walking? Or when you looked up? We have to clarify these things beforehand.”
“Pick up the paddle.”
I weighed the fleeting joy I’d get from disobeying him against the pain of additional swats. I picked up the paddle.
“Hand it to me.”
Our fingers brushed as he took it from me, and I felt a thrill despite my nervousness.
“Bend over the table.”
I stepped to the side of the chair and leaned over, placing my forearms against the table’s surface.
He walked behind me, and I willed myself to stay calm, relaxed. I let out a sharp breath as I heard him slap the paddle lightly against his palm.
“Count each swat.”
He tapped the paddle against the seat of my pants, and I couldn’t help it—I tried to tuck my ass away from it.
“Out,” he ordered.
I sighed and pushed my hips back.
He withdrew the paddle. A second later it cracked across the center of my ass.
“Oh!” I squeezed my eyes shut.
“Count,” he reminded me.
“One,” I said quickly. “Hey, D, I was thinking—”
The paddle connected again—a loud, forceful blow that made my knees buckle. I flexed my fingers against the table, trying not to hiss. “Two.”
I reached for the 1970s paddling fantasy I’d had that night at Riddle—the rust-colored bell-bottoms, the shag carpet. But it seemed considerably less sexy now that my ass was actually getting blistered.
“I trust you.” I swallowed. “Seriously, I think you’re a good guy. And—ow! Jesus, D. Three—I really want you to give me what you think I need. So if that means—fuck! Four. Sorry, didn’t mean to swear—if that means sex as a punishment, fine. I don’t know how much of a punishment sex stuff’ll be, though, because honestly, you make me so hard—”
“David?”
“Yeah?”
He delivered number five, hard enough that I shifted my weight back and forth and whimpered.
“We will discuss this later. Right now, you are being punished.”
I struggled to regain my breath. “Right. Sorry. Five.”
D rubbed the paddle over my ass and gave me a series of taps with it, focusing me. “What are you supposed to do when you enter my house?”
“Stand on the mat. Hands behind my back, head down. Wait for you to address me.”
“Very good.” He walloped me.
“Ow! Ow, ow, shit.” I brought one leg up, trying to lessen the sting. “Six. We can stop here. I’m really sorry.”
“Can we really? How many swats did I say?”
“See, I still really don’t think that’s fa—”
He took my shoulders and pulled me upright. He leaned forward and said in my ear, “Go to the den and get the rubber paddle.”
“But—”
“You have thirty seconds.”
“I don’t want—”
He turned me around, bent me over his arm, and gave me a flurry of swats with his hand. “I. Said. Go. Get. Me. That. Paddle. Thirty seconds.”
I went to the den, scrubbing my backside with both hands. I paused before pulling the black rubber paddle off the wall.
It was fucking heavy. About seven inches wide, a foot long, and half an inch thick, it would cover pretty much my whole ass with a single swat. I tried it against my palm, and the sound was a solid slap, almost a thud.
I took it back to the kitchen, my cock hard, my stomach churning.
“Here you go.” I hoped my tone was so demure he’d feel bad about overreacting. We didn’t need the rubber paddle. The wooden one would do the job just fine. We didn’t even need the rest of the swats, because I totally got the message.
He took the paddle and used it to point at the table. “Bend over. Ass out. Legs spread.”
I swallowed and complied.
“One word out of you that’s not the number we’re on, and I will take your pants down and paddle your bare ass. Got it?”
I nodded.
“An answer, please.”
“You just said—” I paused. Reconsidered. “Yes, Sir.”
“Thank you.”
He drew the paddle back and struck.
The pain was like a mushroom cloud—so immense and unfamiliar that I didn’t recognize it as a disaster at first, not until it bloomed and billowed over me. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move, couldn’t yell, couldn’t sink to my knees. My whole body went rigid and I just stayed there, perfectly still.
I curled my fingers against the table and opened my mouth, letting out a very long, silent cry.
The blaze morphed into a steady throb I could feel from my throat all the way down my thighs.
“Count,” D said calmly.
“Seven,” I choked out.
The next swat was lighter, or maybe I just didn’t have much sensation left in my ass. I still hissed and knocked my fists against the table. Swat nine brought on what I hoped would be a sustainable numbness. But as soon as swat ten landed, the pain came shooting back. I gulped several times.
Not gonna cry. Definitely not gonna cry.
D paused and flipped my shirt up. Rubbed my lower back, his callused fingers drifting in serpentines that almost tickled. I gave a small, rough sob.
Take this. Let him break you down. Trust him.
“Stick your butt out.”
I tried to obey, but I was no longer sure I could move anything below my waist. He patted my ass. “Out, David.”
When I whimpered and didn’t move, he pulled my hips away from the table and undid my fly. “No! No, D. I’ll listen . . .”
But he yanked my jeans down to my ankles, smacked my legs apart, and then pressed on my lower back so that my ass went out and up.
The cool air hit the backs of my burning thighs, and there was a second of absolute silence.
Then he delivered swat eleven over my underwear, and I pressed my face against the table. My legs were shaking, and I felt nauseated.
D paused. “What number was that?”
“El—eleven.” My voice cracked. “D, this hurts so much.”
“You’re breaking my heart.”
Jerk.
He swatted again, and my legs went slack. I held on to the table to keep from sliding to my knees. I shook with silent sobs.
“David? Number?”
“Sixteen,” I said, loudly and sarcastically.
He yanked my underwear down and delivered three hard, fast whacks that left me breathless. He placed a hand on my blazing skin. “Assuming those didn’t count,” he said, “what number are we on?”
My arms were stretched across the table, and I gripped the opposite edge, panting. The waistband of my underwear dug into the tops of my thighs as I struggled to keep my legs apart. I gathered the last of my strength. “Let’s assume they did count.”
Another hard whack, this time on my thighs. My eyes watered. This felt good. Awful. Crazy.
Push me. Help me give up. Don’t let me win. “Twelve,” I whispered.
He pulled my underwear to my ankles and swatted my calf to get me to step out of my pants and briefs. Then he lifted my left leg to the side and slapped the paddle against my inner thigh. I shouted. “Thirteen.”
“Good.”
That word was almost enough to make the next swat survivable. “F-f-fourteen.” I burst into tears.
He put my left leg down and picked up my right. Cracked the inside of that thigh just as hard. As soon as he let go, I pressed both legs together as the pain blazed and spread. I coughed, now crying too hard to speak. It scared me for a minute.
He waited. Rubbed the paddle across my ass. I choked on another attempt at fifteen. “I c— I ca—” It was too much. Too much, and I’d pushed too hard, and now I couldn’t even safeword because I couldn’t get anything out except bizarre choking sounds. Fuck my life.
He set the paddle on the table.
“Margin of error,” he said gruffly.
I forced myself to take a breath. “What?”
“I’ll give you a two-second margin of error for the three minutes you counted.” He pried my hands off the table and helped me stand. “We’re done.”
I staggered as he drew me against him. I gave a series of fast, ugly sobs against his chest, then I closed my eyes and bawled like a child.
And I didn’t even have strength enough left to be embarrassed.
He held me until I got my crying under control.
“D—did you just go easy on me?” I managed finally.
He chuckled, and I loved the sound of it, the vibrations I could feel in my own body. “Don’t expect me to make it a habit.”
He led me to the sink and helped me rinse my face, because snot was definitely a thing that was happening. Then he made me drink a glass of water.
He took me to the living room. He covered one of the throw pillows on the sofa with a dish towel, then made me lie facedown on the couch, one pillow under my head and the towel-covered one under my hips. He sat at the end of the couch, my legs in his lap, and spent a good ten minutes rubbing my ass. Distributing the heat, easing the sting and then bringing it back by pinching or kneading too hard. I was exhausted, and eventually I just accepted that I wasn’t in control and went limp.
After that, he was nothing but gentle.
“This works too,” I ventured at last, my voice croaky.
“What’s that?”
“To shut me up.” I tried to laugh. “If you’re ever looking for an alternative to spanking.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
I rolled slightly, trying to see him over my shoulder. “Don’t you know anything about training?” I asked. “More with honey than with vinegar, and all that?”
He squeezed my thigh. “I prefer vinegar. I think you do too.”
“Ow, ow . . . I like both.”
“Well,” he said softly, running a hand down my back. “There can be some of both.”
He eased me up and hauled me into his lap. I groaned as I put weight on my ass again. He stared at me for a moment, and I waited, all but pursing my lips in an effort to cue him. He leaned forward and kissed me. A gentle kiss that grew more forceful, more demanding. I put one hand on the back of his head, and put the other hand on the side of his neck to feel the warmth of his skin, the twitch of his pulse. He wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled until my cock met his hip.
I brought my hands to the front of his shirt and hesitated before undoing the first button. I looked at him for permission. He nodded.
I unbuttoned the shirt, and he slipped out of it.
I let him yank my T-shirt over my head. I kissed down the side of his neck to his shoulder, then pounced on him, trying to push him against the arm of the sofa. My ass still hurt, but it was tough to care when I was this hard. He caught me and held me at arm’s length, then eased me back, straddling me.
“The things I’d like to do to you,” he whispered.
“Do them,” I urged.
“The first thing I’d like to do . . .” He brushed his thumb over my nipple as he leaned to kiss my jaw. Kept his lips close to my ear.
I arched my back and sighed happily, waiting to hear all the dirty things he was gonna do to me.
“. . . is see your list for this week.”
What?
I sat up. “But I just got punished.”
“For refusing to follow protocol. We haven’t even covered what you’ve been up to this week.”
“D! Come on.”
“Are you refusing?”
“No. God, no. Let me up; I’ll get it.”
D released me, and I tried to pounce on him again, but I got a very firm reminder to go retrieve the list.
The man was a bastard and a half.
Someone ought to spank him.
Someone ought to do a lot worse than spank him I thought later, as I sat naked on his dryer with clothespins on my nipples.
The dryer was on, and the heat was killing my already bruised ass. The clothespins had been dipped in Vicks VapoRub, and if D got near enough to me, I was definitely going to claw his eyes out.
But he wasn’t near enough. He was sitting on the laundry room steps with a small remote control in hand, watching me wince as the dryer shuddered and hummed under me. My nipples burned from the Vicks, but the sharp ache of the clothespins occasionally eclipsed the burn. He had a quirt and a wooden spoon by his side.
You’ll get one good shot at his eyes when he comes over here. Claw them out. Claw them and run.
But he didn’t come over. So I settled instead for admiring his shirtlessness.
The remote D held controlled the plug up my ass—the plug that was gently fucking me with each rumble of the dryer. It had a thin strip of silicone running the length of my cock, and two loops—one that went around the base of my cock, and another that went under the head. The whole apparatus vibrated. Five speeds.
D was having a field day. He’d start the plug vibrating slowly, and between the buzz from the plug, the tremors and heat from the dryer, and the steady burn in my nipples, he’d get me squirming and moaning. Suddenly he’d bump the plug up to the highest speed, and I wouldn’t even be able to speak. I’d just rock back and forth, grinding my battered ass against the machine’s hot surface, seconds away from coming . . . and then he’d stop. And I’d complain. Well, the first time I’d complained. But he’d gotten up, walked to me, and flicked the clothespin on my left nipple. Once I’d recovered from that, I’d been super quiet.
“This is fun,” he said from the steps.
I clenched my jaw as he bumped the vibrator up to midspeed. “This device seems too complex for a man of your simple tastes.”
“Oh, no. Not at all.” D turned the vibrator up again, and I snapped my head back, pressing my legs together. I was once again on edge, my balls drawn up tight. I needed someone to fuck me so hard I’d scream.
D didn’t slow the vibrator down, and for a second I thought this was it, that he was finally going to let me come. Then he turned it off.
I bit back all the horrible things I wanted to call him.
He got off the step and walked over to me. I tensed, not sure if he intended to do harm. He removed the clothespin from my left nipple. I kept eye contact with him, but let out the most agonized sigh I could muster as sensation came shooting back to the area. He took the clothespin off my right nipple and dug his thumbnail into the swollen flesh.
I bit my lip.
Not a sound. Don’t let him see your fear.
“Stand up.”
I did. My ass and thighs felt inflamed, the skin too tight, the kind of ache that would last for days. My nipples still tingled from the Vicks.
“I want you to come without using your hands.”
“Are you gonna use your hands?”
He smacked my ass, which I took as a no.
“Hands behind your head. I want to see you come.” He turned the vibrator on to medium speed. My hips started jerking. Horny as I was, it was still difficult to figure out what to do to make myself shoot. I tried clenching around the plug and shifting in an effort to get it to graze my prostate. I tried focusing on the vibrating bands around my cock, but they were too small to do much besides tease.
D picked up the spoon. He told me to take a step back and turn to the side.
This did not bode well. But I did it. Because I was a pleasant and obedient individual who adored a man cloned from Satan.
He began to smack the base of the plug with the spoon, not hard—but with a perfect rhythm. I moaned in time with the blows. He brought each blow farther down between my legs, until the spoon was grazing my balls with each swat. God I was close. And then he wrapped his arms around me, and his hips pressed against my ass.
I whimpered as he rubbed himself against the base of the plug, shifting it inside me. My back, damp with sweat, brushed against the slightly coarse hair of his chest. He pulled back then rocked forward again, hammering the plug deeper into me with each thrust of his hips. I took a quick breath and released the first spurt of cum. He slid his hands up and pinched my nipples, bringing back the pain from the clothespins. I yelped and clenched hard around the plug, coming all over the closet door.
I thought I was done, but he reached down and slowly squeezed the base of my cock, milking more out of me. I moaned, too tired to resist. When he let me go I slumped against him, so ready to be done. But instead of leading me back to the couch in the living room to let me recover, he handed me a rag and pointed to the mess I’d made. “Clean up.”
“But I’m—” I started.
“David. Have you ever considered just doing what I tell you?”
“Many times. But I usually decide against it.”
“Get me the Vicks.” He held out his hand.
I glanced behind me. The Vicks was still on the laundry table where he'd left it after dipping the clothespins. “Why?” I demanded.
“I won't tell you again.”
I fetched the tub and handed it to him. He opened it and spread some onto my very sensitive, very tired cock and balls. I squirmed as the menthol started to wake each nerve. He reached around and pulled the plug partway out of my ass and smeared some cream onto the tapered part between the shaft and the base before pushing it back in. Then he told me once more to clean up my mess.
My asshole and cock tingling, I wiped up my cum as quickly as I could. The tingling became an icy burn, and I straightened, my jaw tense. He watched me, occasionally cracking the spoon against his palm, which startled me into tightening around the plug, which in turn made the burn worse. When I was done, I hurried to him. Tried to stand still. He slipped the loops off my cock and removed the plug from my ass, then handed me my clothes.
“All right,” he said. “You can get dressed.”
“Uh, can I clean up?”
“Nope.” He grinned. “I want you thinking about me on your way home. And consider how much more comfortable you’d be if you’d just done what I said the first time.”
“You are the purest of evil.”
“I recommend washing with milk. It’ll get rid of the burn. Water might make it worse.”
I dressed quickly, wincing the whole time.
“David?” he said innocently as I stormed from the laundry room. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay for coffee?”
“You’re dead to me,” I called with a wave, as I hobbled toward the front door.
I drove home, reminding myself several times not to speed. I writhed on the seat, trying to find a position that didn’t make my ass hurt like hell. I placed my forehead on the wheel at a stoplight and gave a shout of frustration.
At last I reached the duplex. I jumped out of the car and raced up the front steps.
I burst into the house. “Gould! Where are you?”
“Good God, David, what?” he asked from the kitchen.
“I need the antidote!”
“What are you talking about?”
I reached the kitchen and stood in the doorway. “I have Vicks in my ass and all over my cock, and if I don’t get it off I’m going to die. I need milk. Milk!”
He appeared to be trying very hard not to laugh. “Okay. Calm down.”
“Easy for you to say.” I staggered in and clutched the edge of the table. “You don’t have Mrs. O’Leary’s whole flaming stable up your ass.”
“Bathroom. I’ll get you the milk.”
I shuffled to the bathroom and yanked my pants and underwear down, half expecting to find my dick covered in boils. Everything looked normal, just a little pink. And I smelled like menthol. I turned so I could see my back in the mirror. My ass was spectacularly red, with plenty of dark purple on the sit spots.
“Jesus,” Gould said from the doorway.
I whirled.
He was pouring milk onto a dishcloth. “What did you do to earn this?”
“Nothing. D’s a monster.”
“Uh-huh.” He handed me the cloth, and I pressed it to my dick, whimpering. “Come on. Wipe it off.”
When I didn’t move, he took the cloth and gently cleaned me.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yeah.” I took the cloth from him and wiped my crack. I hissed dramatically.
“Turn around.”
I obeyed. He clucked again at the sight of my ass. “Dave. Good grief. You’re gonna be sore for days.”
“I got a little mouthy. Then I got a lot paddled.”
I saw him smile in the mirror. “No kidding. Pants up.”
I pulled my pants up. “Ohhh my God.” I limped to the kitchen, where I ransacked the cupboards until I found a bag of tortilla chips with nothing left but the crumbs. I got a container of salsa from the fridge, opened it, sniffed it, then dumped the chip shards inside. Started eating it with a spoon. “So what’ve you been up to?” I tried to sound casual, like he hadn’t just helped me sponge bathe my dick with milk.
He shrugged. “Answered some work emails. Talked to a dom on Fet for a little bit. She seems awesome, but she’s got a couple of meh reviews on our blog, so I don’t know. I think I’m still gonna play with her.”
“Gould, do you like girls?”
He shrugged again.
“I won’t be mad.”
He rolled his eyes.
“What? You can tell me!”
“I like girls a little.”
I shrieked, clapping my hands over my mouth.
“It’s not a big deal,” he protested.
“I know, I know.” I put my hands down. I took the salsa bowl over to the table and sat across from him. “I’m just trying to understand. Since when?”
“Since always. High school. I went to prom with Kristie Lyons.”
“I thought you threw up when she took her top off?”
“Yeah, that was because I’d had a beer, though.”
“I think you throwing up after one beer is sadder than you throwing up because of boobs.”
He sagged forward, resting his forehead on the table. “After Hal, I played with a couple of women because I just didn’t feel like . . . I don’t know.”
I put a hand on his hair and patted.
He didn’t move. “I prefer dudes, okay? I’m just saying I don’t mind, once in a while . . .”
“Playing with a lady.”
He looked up and snagged a chip shard out of my salsa. “Right.”
“It’s a little something different. It’s your summer home.”
“My volunteer job on the weekends.” He licked salsa off his thumb.
“It’s the expensive restaurant you treat yourself to once in a while.”
“Sure.”
“Okay. I’m fine with that.”
He straightened and shot me a glare. “Of course you are. What is there not to be fine with?”
“You just surprised me is all.”
We killed the salsa and went to our rooms, and I spent most of the night texting D. Just little messages. Right when I imagined he was about to fall asleep, I’d text him that my ass still burned—it didn’t really—or that I wished that plug had been his cock. I wanted him to feel like I was right there in bed with him, annoying the living fuck out of him. But every time I texted, he texted right back, usually something five times dirtier than what I’d said. I finally fell asleep around two, surprised he’d outlasted me.