Chapter 59 Elliot #3
My hands float at my sides as he pulls my pants down.
He uses several rough movements, jostling me from side to side to work them over my ass, scraping them over my dick and balls as he does it.
I’m not sure if my biggest problem at this point is that I can’t expel air from my lungs or if it’s the fact I’m inhaling way too fast. I have my eyes fixed on the floor, unable to look at him, starting to panic about what the hell I should do next.
Turns out, I don’t need to worry. A hand around my wrist and a hand on the small of my back are all Stuart needs to manhandle me with ease. I’m over his knee so fast I don’t even have time to think about how I got there.
He doesn’t say anything. Not a word. No patient scolding.
No measured telling off. Just silence for a few seconds as I familiarize myself with the weight of my chest and belly pressing my dick heavily against his thigh.
Then, a resounding crack as a hand comes down on my scantily clad flesh.
His palm lands with such blinding force it knocks a startled squawk out of me.
The next one does too. And so does the one after that.
The pain is instant, seeping into my skin and rattling things inside me I’ve always tried really hard not to rattle.
By the time I’ve collected myself enough to clamp a hand over my mouth, Stuart has landed on a solid, punishing pace.
Left cheek, right cheek, left cheek again.
Every swat is as hard as the first one. Maybe harder. Lily-white blooms pink. Sensory receptors send frantic messages to confused nerve endings.
“Move, idiot, move!” they scream.
I don’t. I can’t. With every slap that lands, I lurch forward and my head snaps back, but I’m not going anywhere. There’s no risk of that. The big hand not tending to my behind is curled around my hip, holding me firmly in place. Grounding me. Centering me. Gently reminding me I asked for this.
Pain and shame pulse through my body, lumpy and clumpy, swirling through my organs and strangling me. My mind races. Fast and frantic as my thoughts fight to catch up with what’s happening to me. At first, I try for bravado.
It’s fine. I’m fiiiine. Everything’s fine. There’s no way Stuart can keep this up. His hand will fall off pretty soon.
Of course it will.
It will, right?
Wrong. A furtive glance back informs me that Stuart has yet to break a sweat. His breathing is even and his demeanor is wholly unfazed. He lifts his arm in a broad arc behind me, and while I can’t see it landing, I can sure as hell feel it.
Oh shit.
I’ve made a mistake, haven’t I?
He keeps spanking me, relentlessly hard and relentlessly fast, until the taste of yellow and red dances across my tongue.
I mouth “Yellow” but don’t let any sound out.
I can’t. I don’t want to because louder than the sound of nerve endings shrieking, “No!” a deep, unfamiliar inner voice chants, “Yes!”
Warmth blossoms, unfurling and changing, darkening. Deepening. Soft pink gives way to magenta. Heat throbs under my skin and sinks into muscle and bone. My eyes sting, and I blink furiously after each swat, sniffling now and then.
I’m not crying.
My nose is just running, okay? This is what happens when you’re tipped head down, ass up, for a long period of time. Everyone knows that.
Panic and pain intermingle, winding over and under each other, braiding themselves into a thick, sumptuous cord. They absorb the noise and buzz in my brain. They suck it in, and when they breathe it out, they do it on the back of the truth.
My truth.
My place.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” I sob. It’s my voice, but it’s not. It’s mine, but it’s not part of me I’ve shown to anyone before, maybe not even myself.
He hears it. He stops and pauses.
I feel the weight and warmth of his hand on my back, an inch or two above my crack.
The heat spreads down, tantalizing me, oozing down to my balls.
My dick pulses hard. The hand on my back is there one second, warm and steady, and then it’s gone.
I miss it immediately. It’s back soon, though, and this time it’s on the waistband of my underwear, fingers digging under it and pulling them away from my body.
A desperate, delicious shame floods me.
He’s going to see!
He’s going to see how red my ass is. He’s going to see my flesh ripple and quiver under his hand. And he’s going to see the horrendous state of my dick. It’s thick and red too. I don’t need to see it to know that. I can feel it, hot, dripping with lust. He starts to tug, dragging my underwear down.
No!
The same panic from before jolts me, zapping me like a taser straight to the nads.
Yes!
My head flicks up and my right hand flies back. I frantically paw at my pants, struggling to pull them up as Stuart works on pulling them down.
“I’m sorry.” This time there’s a raw franticness in my voice. “I can’t help it, Daddy.”
I can’t. I have to struggle. I can’t possibly let him pull my pants down and bare my punished backside without a struggle.
I can’t. I just can’t. The panic that grips me now is different from the one before.
This time it’s wild. Frightened. I need him to know!
I need him to know I’m only struggling because I have to, not because I want him to stop.
By some miracle, he does. He must because he catches my wayward, wriggling arm by the hand and twists it onto my lower back. I gasp and splutter in relief, blinking hard to clear the mist blurring my vision.
He pulls my underwear down to my knees. He does it roughly, drawing a tiny, pained whimper from me as a cool blast of air hits my scorched cheeks.
I struggle in vain, stopping suddenly when it occurs to me that it probably makes me look even more silly.
The last thing I can afford is to look sillier.
Trust me, I already look silly as fuck. My work pants are twisted around my ankles, my underwear are bunched up at my knees, and I’m currently all but mooning my dad’s best friend.
Not only that, I’m doing it with an ass I’ve allowed him to spank the living shit out of.
It’s awful. I can’t stand it. I’m dizzy with shock.
I love it.
I hate it.
I love it so much I’m reeling from it. Hot and delirious and horny.
Oh God.
Don’t groan.
“That was quite the tantrum, wasn’t it,” he says.
A tantrum. A tantrum? Um, no, it was a very manly loss of shit. That’s what it was.
“Elliot, I want you to know that I know how hard it is to ask for what you need. I understand it. I get it. I do. But the arrangement between us is dependent on honest communication. I’m not a mind reader.
If there’s something you want or need, you have to ask for it.
I want us to get to the point where you’re comfortable asking outright, but until then, you can ask me in any way you feel comfortable.
Whether that means having a hand over your face, looking away, or even texting me, I don’t mind.
All I care about is that you communicate with me. Understand?”
I sniff loudly and nod my head slightly.
“Are you sure?”
I nod again, hard this time.
“Good. You’re welcome to ask me for anything you need, and we’ll discuss it calmly, but I need you to know that if you ever again talk to me the way you spoke to me tonight, I’m going to teach you the difference between a spanking and a thrashing.
It’s important you understand that because it will be a lesson you won’t soon forget. Do I make myself clear?”
I curl my free hand into a tight fist and mash it against my lips so hard it feels like it might bruise.
Don’t groan.
Don’t moan.
“I-I understand, Daddy.” My voice is wispy and thin.
It sounds nothing like anything I’ve heard come out of my mouth before.
It also sounds familiar. I know it. It’s the voice that’s spent years whispering in my ear, painting pictures of things that exist, things other people have that I want, things I’d started to believe didn’t exist for me.
“I suspect you do,” he says sympathetically.
It lulls me into a false sense of security.
I go limp over his knees, letting go of the weight I’ve been trying to carry for so long.
“But because this isn’t something we can afford to have any confusion about, I’m going to make absolutely sure.
” His voice is silky and smooth. Soothing.
It would be reassuring if it weren’t for the clear threat laced into his words.
I feel his hand in mine. Hot and twisted as they meld together on my lower back.
A fleshy palm. Big, thick fingers. I tighten my grip on them, squeezing firmly, waiting, and hardly able to believe it when he squeezes back just as hard.
I splutter and almost lose the short battle to swallow the sob threatening to break free. I’m victorious, but not by much.
He starts spanking me again. I’m shocked to find just how much my underwear was protecting me.
If I thought what happened before was painful, God, was I wrong.
This is worse. Much, much worse. The sounds I make are straight-up revolting.
A sickening series of gulpy little ooohs and aaahs that follow each smack.
Every one of them lands crisply, stinging so much that my teeth chatter and clench, making me grimace as my chin quivers.
Loud, tacky slaps echo around the room, bouncing off tile and glass, followed promptly by long, thin wails that escape me and gradually morph into words.
“I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”