Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
The walk from Derek’s office to the second-floor staircase blurred at the edges, as if the hallway were stretching too long and folding in at once.
Danny kept his eyes glued to the floor, his breath shallow and fast, the air catching in his throat like he’d just run uphill.
Every step landed too loudly, the soles of his sneakers suddenly too squeaky on the polished floor.
A tight fluttering started deep inside his belly, like something fragile was about to crack open.
Easton’s presence just ahead of him was solid, steady, and absolutely magnetic. The faint scent of his aftershave lingered in the air. It was something clean and sharp, like mint crushed between fingers. The masculine scent stirred something low in Danny’s belly.
He shouldn’t want this. Not like this.
But he did. God help him, he did.
His heart pounded so hard it echoed in his ears.
The organ jumped behind his ribs, before it tried to move to his throat.
He tried to count his steps, focus on his breathing, anything to keep from thinking about how he looked from behind.
Were his shoulders too hunched? His jeans too tight?
Should he have worn the other shirt? The one Wilbert always said made him look “buttoned-up and biteable”.
The thought stung. Not just from memory but because Easton had seen him then, and he was about to see him now. No Daddy’s boy. Just a mess of nerves in hand-me-down jeans, too old for this but too needy to stop.
Danny rubbed his sweaty palms down his thighs and blinked hard.
He wasn’t ready.
He was too ready.
He was going to ruin this.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was exactly what he needed.
The moment they stepped onto the second floor, the lighting shifted.
Sunlight streamed through tall windows and played across the black iron railings that lined the open hallway.
It should’ve been beautiful, but all Danny felt was a clammy dampening forming under his arms. His palms were slick and his mouth dry.
And he was sure it needed to be the other way around.
He’d been up here before.
Back then, Wilbert had led him to the Family Room with a firm hand and a warm smile. Back then, he’d been floating in a haze of Little contentment and felt safe, cared for, and adored.
Now, each step toward that familiar room made his stomach twist tighter.
Easton opened the door and stepped aside, letting Danny go first. The moment he crossed the threshold, the scent hit him—lemon polish, old wood, fabric softener, faint vanilla.
His knees almost gave out.
The L-shaped couch sat exactly where it always had, deep cushions pulled in tight like it was waiting to catch someone small and hurting.
A low white shelf lined the opposite wall, its bins still bursting with toys.
The bright colors clashed painfully against the knot in Danny’s chest. The television loomed above the entertainment center, dark and silent, as if holding its breath.
In the far corner, the straight-backed armchair faced the wall, like a warning whispered.
And then there was the armoire. The implement cabinet stood tall and silent in its corner, its presence as commanding as ever, humming with the weight of memory Danny wasn’t sure he was ready to feel.
It was too much. A kaleidoscope of comfort and grief.
He swayed.
Easton’s hand closed around his arm. His touch was firm but not unkind.
“Breathe,” he ordered, guiding him to the couch. “Sit for a moment.”
Danny obeyed. He perched on the edge of the cushion, spine stiff as a board, arms wrapped around himself like he could hold his insides in place.
Easton crouched beside him, lowering himself until their eyes were level. “This isn’t punishment.” Easton’s voice was a balm and a challenge all at once. “You haven’t done anything wrong, Danny.”
Danny’s gaze dropped. “Feels like I have.”
“I know. Grief lies like that.”
A beat.
“Grieving someone you love bruises the soul.” Easton caught his gaze and held it. “And it breaks your heart. It makes you feel hollow and heavy at the same time. Like everything hurts… and nothing matters.”
Danny’s throat clenched, eyes stinging with sudden heat. His shoulders hunched inward as if making himself smaller would make him hurt less.
It didn’t work.
Easton reached out, his fingers grazing the underside of Danny’s forearm in a light caress. “What we’re about to do it isn’t about control. It’s about letting your body speak when your words can’t. It’s about release. For you. Not for me.”
Danny nodded, once, hard. His lips parted, but nothing came out. His heart was too high in his chest.
“I will spank you”—Easton stroked Danny’s arms and kept his gaze—“until I feel you’ve let enough go. I’m not going to ask you to count. This isn’t a game or discipline. If you need to, you can stop me at any time. Your safeword is valid here. Yellow for pause. Red for stop. Say either, and I will.”
Danny looked up at him. “Okay.” He swallowed. “Y-yes, Sir.”
“One more thing.” Easton’s voice dipped, serious. “This is not sexual. We’re not mixing your Little space with sex.”
A flicker of disappointment shot through Danny. Followed by relief. Followed by guilt for the disappointment. “I don’t… I don’t want that either. Not like this,” he murmured.
Easton nodded once. “Then we’re agreed.”
When Easton fluidly rose, Danny’s pulse jumped.
Easton offered his hand, palm up.
Danny hesitated only a moment before slipping his hand into the long-fingered, callused one waiting for him. The warmth of that touch shot through him like a pulse. He let himself be drawn to his feet, legs wobbly with nerves and something far more disturbing.
“Come here.” Easton guided him to the high-backed armchair near the corner. It was solid, broad, and dignified like something from a grandfather’s study.
Easton sat and gently tugged Danny forward until he stood next to his knees. Danny’s breath came shallow, his eyes flicking to the couch he’d just left, then back to man seated on the chair like royalty. He swallowed hard.
“I loved him too, you know.”
The words hit low and deep. Danny’s throat closed, his knees nudging inward like he could protect the ache inside him. His chest rose too fast, his fingers curling into his palms.
Easton guided him down, helping him lower over his lap until Danny’s chest rested across the broad thighs.
As his upper body tilted, blood rushed to his head with a dizzying whoosh, making the world feel briefly unsteady and off-kilter in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
There was vertigo, yes, but also a strange sense of surrender.
Of being exactly where he was meant to be.
Danny tried bracing one hand against the floor, but he wasn’t tall enough. Looking to steady himself, he curled a hand instinctively around Easton’s ankle.
The firm muscle beneath Danny’s belly and ribs shifted slightly as Easton adjusted. He didn’t have the same shape as Wilbert, but he was similar enough in build to make Danny’s throat tighten.
Easton’s palm pressed between Danny’s shoulder blades. The touch was warm, sure, and anchoring. Like it belonged there.
The first slap landed with a crisp crack.
Danny heard it before he truly felt the sting.
A sharp, perfect crack that echoed against the walls of the room like punctuation.
Then heat bloomed across his ass. He squeaked, but it was more from surprise than pain.
He bit his lip hard. But when Easton rubbed over the stinging flesh, a trembling exhale escaped his chest.
He tried to keep still.
Tried not to squirm or press back into that touch.
Tried, and failed, not to want more.
The next blow landed.
Another. Then another. Methodical. Controlled. Not cruel.
Easton’s hand peppered his backside, never falling in the same place twice, but the heat built quickly. Danny squirmed, unsure if he wanted it to stop or keep going.
The slaps came steady now, not brutal, but purposeful—each one landing with a precise sting that echoed through Danny’s skin and sank deeper, stirring places he didn’t want to examine too closely.
His breath hitched again. His thighs trembled.
And still the tears stayed buried, locked behind a wall his grief had mortar-sealed shut.
Pain radiated outward from his ass, hot and prickling, and his cock swelled.
He hated himself for it. Hated how the burn and the helplessness made him ache, how his body misfired want instead of release. His stomach clenched as he tried to press down the need rising with every strike.
But his hips had other ideas.
One slow grind. Then another. The seam of Easton’s trousers was rough against the underside of Danny’s cock, but it was something, and he was desperate for anything to take the edge off the chaos he couldn’t bleed out in tears.
Danny didn’t even realize he was dry humping Sir’s leg until Easton went still beneath him.
A pause. A breath. Then—
Crack!
The swat landed low, just below the curve of his butt, searing across the top of his thigh like fire. Danny jerked and howled, a ragged, broken sound that filled the playroom like a siren. His hands scrambled for purchase, grabbing Easton’s ankle again.
“Bad boy!”
Danny froze.
Shame slammed into him so fast it stole his air. He hung his head. Sir Easton said no sex. His voice cracked around the words. “I’m sorry.”
“I know, babyboy,” Easton murmured. “But this one is for your heart, not your cock.”
Another swat. Then another. The tempo picked back up.
Danny pressed his face against his upper arm and kept his hips still, as he absorbed the slaps.
His breath stuttered out in little gasps.
His body vibrated with shame, pain and longing.
Every muscle in him was strung taut, and he had no idea if he was about to scream or sob.
Maybe both.