Chapter Twenty-Three #2
“Milk.” He let out a nervous chuckle. “It’s a long story.”
“You’ll have to tell me later. Are you ready for your penance?”
“Ready when you are, Father.” He pushed his ass out, swaying it slightly. “Have at it.”
The crack of Cantrell’s palm against his skin echoed in the room.
Illias jerked then bowed his head, a small laugh escaping him. “Is that all you got?” he taunted. “If it is, it’s going to take more than that to beat the sin out of me, Father.”
Cantrell gripped the back of Illias’ neck and pushed him down onto the desk.
The startled gasp it caused brought gave Cantrell a sick sense of gratification.
Cantrell squeezed slightly. “Grip the edge of the table above your head.” He noted the quickness with which Illias moved to follow orders and felt a surge of pride.
Perhaps I haven’t lost my touch completely.
“Let go of the desk or say your safe word and this ends, do you understand?”
“Yes Father.”
Cantrell brought his hand down across Illias’ ass, harder, faster than the one before.
Spanking him over and over, not giving him any room to speak.
Cantrell relished in the sound of his palm coming down against Illias’ ass.
Enamored by how it reddened and rippled with every swing.
Cantrell grew heady with arousal with each small noise that escaped Illias.
Cantrell wondered how much Illias could take before needing to stop, how far he could be pushed, could bend.
Cantrell delivered a sharp smack to the soft crease between ass and thigh, and Illias’ knees buckled momentarily.
“Tell me.” Cantrell dragged his nails across Illias’ undoubtedly tender bottom.
Illias hissed and squirmed, but his hands never left the edge of the desk.
“Is this what you had imagined when you debased the confessional that day?” Cantrell tangled his fingers in the hair at the base of Illias’ skull.
“Is this what you dreamed of when you told me you would come from this?”
Illias only whined in response. Cantrell pulled Illias’ head off the desk by his hair while delivering a hard, quick slap to his ass. A rough, ragged swear tore from Illias’ throat.
“I asked you a question.” Cantrell gave a tug to Illias hair again. “Answer me.”
“Yes!” Illias bit out. “Yes, please, don’t stop.”
Cantrell reared back and delivered his hardest blow yet.
Illias howled, body tensing from the impact, but he remained perfectly in place.
Each swing after drew a different noise.
A different swear. Every sound went straight to Cantrell’s aching cock.
He wanted to know if Illias was affected in the same manner.
If he was twitching and leaking within the confines of his jockstrap.
Cantrell thought about reaching between those thick, muscular thighs and seeing for himself.
“Are you going to come from this like you said you would?” He ran his nails across Illias’ red, battered ass, drawing a broken, wrecked cry from him. “Fall apart beneath the palm of my hand like the good little saint I know you can be?”
“God, yes.” Illias pushed against Cantrell’s hand. “Please, just keep going.”
Cantrell drew back his hand and swung, hitting the crease of Illias’ thigh and ass. The pitiful noise it drew only served to encourage Cantrell to do it again. So, he did. Over and over to both sides until he was certain that there would be nice, pretty bruises that would hurt to sit on.
“Fuck!” Illias screamed, voice hoarse and barely audible.
Cantrell watched in rapture as Illias fell apart as his orgasm crashed over him.
His legs trembled, his head tossed back.
The look of pure bliss spread across his features.
Cantrell pushed his lower half against Illias, the skin warm through the thin slacks of his uniform, and groaned softly at the pressure against his aching cock.
One hand still knotted in Illias’ hair, Cantrell held Illias in place and thrusted against him, drawing pained whines.
Let me have this. Cantrell’s breath grew rabid.
God, please, just let me have this. He gripped Illias’ hips.
It’s only touching. With a rough jerk of his hips, Cantrell came, a whispered fuck falling from his lips.
He took an unsteady step back, dizzy over what he had done and the guilt that rushed to the surface.
Cantrell ran his fingers through his hair, scolding himself for being concerned with his own thoughts before he was concerned about Illias’s wellbeing.
He moved to his side and tugged at the knot of the blindfold until it fell to the desk.
Illias blinked against the lights, quickly hiding his face in the crook of his elbow.
Cantrell laid a gentle hand on Illias’ shoulder.
“You can let go,” Cantrell said, feeling the tension in Illias’ shoulder. “You did well.”
Illias released the edge of the desk then flexed his fingers a few times before he pushed himself up, revealing his tearstained face.
“You’re crying.” Cantrell’s voice was soft, yet Illias still flinched.
“I’m okay,” he said, wiping at his face with the back of his hand.
“Illias, it’s perf—”
“I said I’m okay,” he sniped, but his voice, hoarse and dry, wavered and he swallowed. “I’m okay,” he repeated, softly.
Cantrell cupped Illias’ face, brushing a thumb across his cheeks to wipe away the tears. “You were perfect. You did so well for me.”
Illias melted into the touch and grabbed his wrist. He closed his eyes, leaned into Cantrell’s palm. Please, God, Cantrell prayed, let me have him.
Illias opened his eyes then whispered, “Stay?”