Chapter 76 Elliot #2
I look down at the desk, suddenly intensely interested in the large desk calendar on it.
Maybe if I read all the entries, that would buy me some time.
I crane my neck as I try to read Stuart’s small, untidy scrawl.
The pen marks are black. Jet-black. The paper is thick and creamy.
Heavy linen. High quality. I place my right palm down on it hesitantly and then the left.
I lean onto my elbows and watch as Stuart opens the narrow drawer on the other side of the desk and pulls out the cane.
It looks light in his hands. Supple and pliant. He holds it at both ends and bends it. The rod arcs.
Excitement and doom are neck and neck.
He moves behind me, and I can’t breathe. A steel cage exists where my lungs used to be. Can’t hear either. Every sound in the room is drowned out by the sound of my heart. Rabid. Fast. Fighting to break out of my chest.
“Elliot,” Stuart says softly, tongue swirling around the letters that make up my name.
I relish the sound of every one of them.
“I haven’t been scared like that since God knows when.
Watching you fall,” He pauses and his jaw clicks.
“I haven’t felt fear like that in years.
Years and years. In fact, I can’t remember a time I’ve ever felt like that.
Helpless. Watching. Unable to move fast enough to help you.
” He’s silent for two beats. “You could’ve hit your head.
You could have hurt yourself badly. I told you not to do it. ”
Suddenly, we’re not playing a role. This isn’t a sexy teacher-naughty boy roleplay.
It’s real. It’s fucking real. Actions have consequences.
I’ve heard people say it all my life. I know it.
I understand it. Or, I thought I did, but maybe I didn’t because up to this moment, I’ve never felt it—the weight of having someone who cares about you.
Someone who hurts when you hurt. It’s almost unbearable.
“Do you understand why I’m caning you, baby?” His voice is soft now.
“Y-yes, Daddy.” He absorbs my response but doesn’t answer. It’s quiet for so long that I realize it’s still my turn to talk. “I-it’s because I d-deserve it.”
I mean it. I don’t kind of mean it. It’s not what I think I should say.
I really mean it. I’ve been gaily skipping through life, keeping people waiting, letting them down, getting myself into shit and not thinking about anyone else.
I’ve done it all my life. Until this very second, no one’s ever truly made it their business to stop me.
“That’s right,” he says quietly. “You do. But, and listen up, little boy, because this is important. Even though this is serious and even though you willfully disobeyed me, those safe words you mentioned earlier, they apply. If you need them, you use them. There’s no worse way you could ever let me down than needing them and not using them, okay? ”
My hips squirm. I feel the intention. The meaning. The truth in his words. “Yes, Daddy. I understand.”
“Good. Then count.”
For a brief moment, I’m acutely aware of every inch of my body.
Heart, brain, muscle, bone. I feel it all.
Palms, elbows, spine, skin. I feel every tiny hair prickle.
I feel every breath of air. All of it. All of it’s close.
Heavy. Compact and dense. I feel the light tap of the cane across my cheeks.
One tap, then two. Soft, almost sweet. Almost reassuring, but not quite.
A soft song. A quiet whistle as rattan flies through the air. A light thud. A quick jolt forward without very much else. A nice little lull. The first stroke lands, and for a quick second, I almost feel giddy. I almost feel relieved. I almost think it’s not that bad.
Then it hits me.
A red-hot stripe of fire. A line across both cheeks that burns with such pure heat my mouth drops open, but no sound comes out.
My arms give way and my legs kick back, frantic and helpless, totally out of my control as my hands scramble for purchase on the desk and my socked feet slip and slide as I try to find my balance.
My eyes sting, and I feel hot everywhere.
Hot and uncomfortable. Hot and right where I need to be.
“O-one, D-Daddy,” I splutter when I eventually realize who and where I am.
I right myself. Planting my feet and bracing myself. Another tap. A light one that makes me flinch so hard my head whips up. Stuart waits until I’m steady, until I’m in position, bent over, waiting to take it, albeit with knees knocking in fear.
The next stroke lands close to the other, half an inch or less below it. Lighting me up more. Lighting me up worse. Twin flames blaze a trail across my rear.
“T-two, Daddy,” I whimper, blinking hard and fast.
The third one is worse. It lands lower and harder.
It makes my spine curl and bends me backward.
I leap up, hands clamped onto my ass like a magnet.
Desperate to rub the burn away but inadvertently making it worse.
I squawk loudly. Rubbing my ass and then jumping on the spot, trying in vain to shake the pain out.
For the first time since I met Stuart, my dick is confused.
Messages are jumbled. Horny, not horny. Good sore.
Bad sore. It starts to soften, dangling almost limp between my legs.
“Back in position, or I’ll give you extra.”
I hear a clear threat and all but throw myself back over the desk, landing with my cheek kissing the smooth surface of the calendar.
The last thing on Earth I need are extras. I’m hanging on by a thread here. Believe me, I can’t handle more.
I react the same way to the fourth and the fifth strokes.
The same but worse. More pathetic. More simpering.
I howl when the cane makes contact. Loud and terrible.
Mouth wide open, face twisted in an ugly grimace, body arching off the desk.
Dancing on the spot, stiff-legged and skittish.
Jumping up without any intention from me, only to dive back over the desk to wait, heart thudding, for the next one.
“Five, Daddy,” I sniffle.
“Last one.” Stuart’s voice is firm but encouraging. A threat and a promise laced with pure pain. My dick hears it and twitches, staggering into a base form of attention as I assume the position.
He touches me. Lightly. Cane caresses scorched skin.
A whisper. A trace. Just a suggestion of where it’s going to land.
My ass cheeks quiver like jelly. No, not like jelly.
Worse. Worse than jelly. I’m shaking from head to toe.
Knees knocking, teeth chattering, terrible somber sounds pouring out of me freely.
I paw at the calendar, turning it upward and biting down on it hard, groaning around it as I wait for the last stroke.
It lands with such precision that I’m almost impressed.
At least, I would be if I wasn’t howling.
A clear, crisp cut slices into me right where my cheeks and thighs meet.
I jump up and spin around the room. Hands reaching for my cheeks but too frightened to touch them lest it make them sting worse.
I jump up and down, kicking my legs jerkily as the pain builds.
Stuart stands stock still, watching me without judgment.
Eventually, his stillness finds me, and I stop moving.
I face him. The cane hangs loosely at his side.
His eyes are passive and kind, his mouth a straight line.
His shirt is white with a pale-blue check.
His pants are tented with a massive erection.
He puts the cane back in the drawer, takes a few things out of a lower drawer, and places them on the desk where I’ve just been. Lube, a strange-looking syringe, and a short black leather strap with a silver buckle.
My heart punches like a fist.
What?
Yes. Pleeeease.
I’m instantly breathless. I hardly dare hope that this is what I think it is. Please, please let him remember.
“Your punishment isn’t over,” he says, reaching down and stroking his erection brazenly, making his intention perfectly clear. “Do you remember what I said about this kind of fucking?”
Oh God. He remembers.
He really is perfect.
I nod rapidly, “Yes, Daddy. You said bad boys don’t get to come.”
“That’s right. And I meant it.” He cocks a stern eyebrow at me. “This is for me, not for you, so if you come while I’m inside you, you’re going to get another dose of the cane.”
I gulp and nod again.
Jesus, I can’t take that. My ass is on fire.
I’m gonna need to get my wits about me in a very big way.
“Now, do you know what these are?” He motions to the items on the desk.
I shake my head.
He picks up the strap and shows it to me. “This goes around your balls. It’s to help you. To stop them from creeping up close to your body. It will make it harder for you to shoot. It will help you be good.”
“Will it hurt, Daddy?” I ask hopefully.
“No, baby. It will be a little uncomfortable, but it won’t hurt. Would you like me to put it on you?”
“Yes, please.”
He lifts my shirt and fondles my balls lightly, gently tugging them away from my body.
He stretches them just enough that he can get the strap on, pinching a little but not quite as much as I’d like.
His knuckles dust the underside of my dick as he does it, a light, barely-there touch that makes me ooze with pleasure.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the syringe once my balls are snuggly restrained.
He picks up the syringe and the lube, uncapping it and slotting the syringe into it.
“It’s called a lube shooter. Look, you fill it up with lube like this.
” He drops the lube back onto the table and holds the syringe up, eyes glinting, thumb cocked on the plunger, looking every inch the hot, pervy doctor of my dreams. My mouth pools with saliva.
“Now, turn around, baby, and I’ll show you where it goes. ”
Oof.
God.