Chapter 23 #3
A powerful shove between his shoulder blades sent him stumbling forward. He threw his hands out, catching himself on the high, padded back of the sofa, his body bent at the waist. His eyes flew open, shock scrambling his thoughts.
What?
Before the question could form, the first blow landed.
A sharp, crisp, open-handed slap across the curve of his right buttock.
The sound was a startling crack in the silent apartment.
Samuel froze. Every muscle in his body locked.
His mind went utterly, completely blank.
His heart gave a single, hard, painful thud against his ribs.
He felt the impact blossom; a stinging, hot flower of sensation that spread across his skin.
It wasn’t the deep, bruising pain of the lash from his memories. This was… bright. Surface. Startling.
What is going on? his mind whispered, dazed and disconnected.
The second slap came, a mirror image on his left cheek. Another bloom of heat.
“Oh!” The sound escaped him, high with surprise, with confusion.
This was… this was wrong. This was punishment. Pain was punishment. Pain was for sinners, for the wicked, for the boy who kissed another boy in the dark. Pain was the language of his shame, the currency of his worthlessness. He had to stop this. He had to…
He was hard.
The realization detonated in his mind, scattering the fragments of his protest. He was painfully, achingly erect, his cock straining against the cool leather of the sofa where his hips were pressed.
The heat from the slaps seemed to travel, not just across his skin, but deep into his core, coiling tight around the base of his spine, feeding the desperate arousal that had been simmering since the first touch.
Shame, hot and immediate, washed over him. To be hard from this… it was the final confirmation of his depravity. The ultimate corruption.
Gael didn’t pause. The blows began in earnest. Not a frantic, angry barrage, but a steady, rhythmic rain.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
At first, Samuel’s mind was a battlefield.
Shame warred with shocking bolts of pleasure.
Each impact made him flinch, his body tensing in anticipation of the next.
He bit his lip, trying to stifle the sounds threatening to escape his throat.
He was a sinner, enjoying his own chastisement.
The cognitive dissonance was a scream inside his head.
But as the rhythm continued, something began to shift.
The pain didn’t accumulate into an unbearable agony.
It built into a strange, buzzing frequency.
The initial sting of each slap would peak, then melt into a deep, radiating heat that pooled under his skin.
The heat spread, wave after wave, until his entire ass was a single, throbbing nerve of sensation.
His mind, overwhelmed by the duel of shame and pleasure, began to surrender.
Just as it did when he knelt. The frantic internal monologue, bad, wicked, wrong, began to fray, drowned out by the pure, overwhelming pleasure.
The world narrowed to the sound of skin on skin, to the rhythm of his own gasping breaths, to the burning, all-consuming heat.
He stopped trying to hold himself rigid. A broken moan slipped out as a particularly sharp slap landed on the sensitive undercurve of his ass. His fingers clawed at the sofa back. His head dropped between his outstretched arms.
The blows continued. The heat intensified, becoming a clean, bright fire that burned away thought. The shame, deprived of the oxygen of his attention, began to flicker and die. In its place was only sensation.
His hips began to move. Tiny, involuntary jerks, seeking friction against the leather with each new impact.
The motion was instinctual, desperate. The pleasure, now inextricably linked with the pain, was a tight coil in his gut, winding tighter and tighter with every slap.
He was floating, dissociated from everything but the pain, the heat, and the building, unbearable pressure between his legs.
He was so hard it was agony. A desperate, weeping need that had become the center of his universe. He was lost in it, submerged in a sea of sensation where nothing existed but the next blow, the next wave of heat, the next ragged gasp of air.
When the spanking finally ceased, the sudden absence of it was a shock. The silence rushed in, thick and ringing. Samuel hung over the sofa, panting, his ass a blazing, painful alive map of Gael’s attention. His mind was a blissful, empty void.
Hard as stone. And desperate to cum..
Gael lifted him as if he were made of air, turning him, rearranging him until Samuel was settled sideways in his lap, his back pressed against the solid wall of Gael’s chest. His head lolled back, coming to rest on Gael’s shoulder.
He was boneless, pliant, every defense burned away by the cleansing fire.
Then Gael’s hand, the same hand that had delivered the stinging, rhythmic blows, slid around his hip, over the flat plane of his stomach. It dipped lower. It found his cock, hard and leaking against his stomach.
The first touch of those long fingers wrapping around his aching length wrenched a raw, keening sound from Samuel’s throat. It was too much. It was everything.
“Shhh.” The sound was a warm breath against his temple, followed by the soft press of lips to his forehead. “Easy. I have you.”
Gael’s mouth trailed kisses, feather-light, reverent, across his damp hairline, down the slope of his cheek. His other arm was wrapped securely around Samuel’s chest, hand splayed over his heart, holding him close, anchoring him to the here and now.
And his right hand began to move.
It was slow. Gael’s palm was warm, his grip firm but not tight, a perfect, slick channel of pleasure. He stroked from the root to the tip gently, his thumb swirling over the slick, flared head on every upstroke, spreading the moisture that beaded there.
Samuel gasped, his body arching instinctively into the touch, seeking more. A soft, broken moan escaped him as Gael’s thumb pressed into the slit, a bright, sharp spark that shot straight to the base of his spine.
“That’s it,” Gael murmured against his skin, his lips finding the shell of his ear. “Let go. Just feel it.”
The command was a permission Samuel didn’t know he needed.
His hips began to move in tiny, involuntary circles, fucking up into that perfect, steady fist. His own hands, which had been clutching at nothing, came up to grip Gael’s forearm where it banded his chest, his fingers digging into the solid muscle there.
He was panting, little hitched breaths that fogged the air before him.
Every nerve ending was alight, the dual sensations of the tender kisses on his face and neck and the exquisite, building friction between his legs weaving a net of pleasure he was helpless to escape.