Chapter 2. Ethan
"Come in."
The door opens, and there he is. Flushed from the cold or from whatever's been running through his head for the past hour. I love it. His blue eyes find mine immediately, and I watch the pupils blow wide in real time.
"Close the door," I say. "Lock it."
He does. The click of the lock is loud. It makes my cock twitch. He turns back, and his posture shifts. Not quite submission, not yet. He's hovering on the edge of it, waiting for me to push him over, like the cute little puppy he is, waiting for his owner.
I stand, using every inch of height the way I know affects him.
"You let Jack break into the kitchen," I say. I love how nervous he looks, how my voice alone is enough to do this to him. "Unauthorized access. Unauthorized use of facility supplies. Got twelve other residents involved."
His lips part. I see the argument forming: Jack started it, it was just snow cones, nobody got hurt. And I watch him swallow it. His hands move behind his back without being told, fingers lacing together. Good boy. He's learned.
"You're right," he says, looking down at his feet. "It was stupid… but so much fun."
I try not to chuckle.
"It was reckless."
"That too. Still fun."
"You have just gotten your kitchen privileges back, brat. Do you understand what would have happened if Lu had found that mess instead of Griff?"
Something flickers across his face. Guilt. Real guilt. Lu matters to him.
"She wouldn't be happy, would she?"
"No," I say. "She wouldn't."
"No, Daddy," he whispers.
"That's why you're getting corrected now."
I sit down. I spread my knees slightly and look at him.
"Come here."
He comes. So obedient. I reach out and hook two fingers into the waistband of his grays, pulling him the last few inches until he's standing between my knees.
"Over," I say.
He drapes himself across my lap. The motion is easy now, hips centered across my thigh, one hand bracing against the floor on one side, the other holding my ankle.
I feel his weight settle, the warmth of his body, the slight tremor running through him.
I pull his waistband down, past his hips. Fuck. That always gets to me.
My hand rests on his back. I feel his muscles tense and then, beautifully, relax. He's giving this to me. My cock hardens further.
The first strike lands firm and open-palmed. His body jerks forward with a quick exhale.
"You don't go into restricted areas without permission, even if you volunteer there," I say. My hand comes down again, same force, half an inch to the right. "You don't drag other residents into your messes." Another strike. His breath hitches. "You don't destroy what you've built."
I settle into a rhythm. Not rushed, not gentle. Each strike spaced enough that he feels the bloom of heat before the next one lands. His skin pinks, then reddens.
He winces at the harder ones. Shifts his weight. And then, gradually, his hips begin to move, to grind against me. His breathing changes, deepens. I keep going until he's whimpering and squirming. That's when I pause. Let my palm rest against the heated skin. Feel his pulse hammering through it.
"You're not sorry at all," I murmur. "Are you?"
He turns his head just enough that I can see his profile, flushed cheek, parted lips, one blue eye glazed with wanting.
"Whatever gave you that idea, Daddy?" he asks, angelic. I chuckle.
"Brat."
I reach for the belt. "Up," I tell him, and I see his eyes go wide at the sight of the belt.
The leather slides off the hook with a whisper. I double it over, wrap the buckle end around my fist.
"Bend over the desk," I tell him. He gulps, audibly. I know he's scared of the belt, so I save it for more serious punishments. "You know I won't go over your limits, but you'll feel this."
"Yes, Daddy," he's already whimpering. He bends over, his head down between his arms, resting on the desk.
The first stroke is a hiss, then a crack, and lands across both cheeks. Years of practice I'd rather not examine too closely. His back arches. His fingers claw at the desk. And the sound he makes is low. It makes me grow harder.
"Was that okay?" I ask, checking in.
"It hurts," he whimpers. But it doesn't sound distressed—quite the contrary.
"Well, that's the point, isn't it, pet? But are you still green?"
"Yes, Daddy," he breathes.
I chuckle. "Little masochist. Tell me if it gets too much."
"Please stop talking," he says. I chuckle again at his complete lack of self-preservation.
The belt falls again. He moans. And I stop pretending this is discipline.
"Three more," I say. "You're going to count them."
He nods against the desk, not moving, just bracing for the impact—such a good boy. I can barely handle it. The skin across his ass is already striped with two pink welts that I can feel radiating heat.
I draw the belt back and let it fall.
The crack is sharper this time; I put more wrist into it, angling the doubled leather so it catches the curve where his ass meets his thighs, that sensitive crease that always makes him lose his mind.
His whole body jolts forward across the desk, and the sound that tears out of him is guttural, animal, something between a cry and a moan that goes straight to my cock like a lit fuse.
"One," he gasps. His voice is wrecked. Shattered. Delicious.
I wait. Let the sting settle into his skin, let his breathing stutter and restart. I can feel him trembling, every muscle in his body caught between flinching away and pressing closer. His reaction is making it very difficult to think about anything except burying myself inside him.
The second stroke lands parallel to the first, slightly higher.
The belt bites into already-reddened skin, and he arches so sharply his shoulder blades nearly touch.
His hand shoots back, and I catch his wrist before it reaches the belt's path.
I pin it to the small of his back, holding him in place, and the noise he makes when I restrain him is this desperate, keening thing, makes my vision narrow.
"Two," he chokes out. His fingers flex in my grip, not pulling away, just needing something to hold onto.
I can feel the pulse in his wrist, jackhammering against my thumb.
His face is turned toward me now, cheek pressed against the desk, and what I see there nearly breaks my composure entirely.
Tears on his lashes. Mouth open and panting.
Eyes so dark with want they're barely blue anymore. He looks ruined and beautiful.
He's right at the edge, the edge of pain, the edge of pleasure.
"Last one, pet," I say. "Do you think you can do it for Daddy?"
"Yes, Daddy."
I give him one last, hard stroke. His entire body seizes, every muscle locking at once, back bowed, and he cries in total surrender.
"Three," he whispers. Barely audible.
I drop the belt. It hits the floor with a muffled thud, and my hand replaces it immediately, palm flat against the welted skin, absorbing the heat. He hisses at the contact, then melts into it, his whole body going liquid.
"Good boy, taking your punishment so well," I say. His shoulders drop. He relaxes even more. A sound escapes him that's almost a sob, almost a laugh. "So good for me."
I stroke his skin gently now, tracing the welts with my fingertips. He shivers.
I grip his arm and pull him gently to his feet.
He sways, and I catch him, one hand on his hip, the other on his chest, feeling his heart slamming against my palm.
His eyes are half-lidded, lips parted and bitten raw.
His skin is hot where my hand rests against his ribs, and his cock is so hard, leaking, completely flushed.
I turn him around. Press my hand between his shoulder blades. Firm.
"Bend over again."
He folds forward without a hint of complaint or hesitation. I see the shivers run through him, and the reddened marks from the belt stand out vividly across his ass, striped and warm, my handiwork painted on him. Fuck, seeing that almost makes me cum on the spot.
"Don't move," I tell him.
I open the desk drawer. I keep the lube tucked behind a stack of incident reports nobody reads, next to a roll of paper towels and a box of tissues that could be explained away.
Nobody ever asks. One of the advantages of being trusted with an office is that people assume you're using it responsibly.
I used to before Liam.
I coat my fingers. The sound is obscene in the quiet room, and Liam's breath catches. He looks back and has a massive grin on his face—that little cheeky brat of mine.
I start with one finger. Slow, circling, pressing against the tight ring of muscle until I feel the resistance give.
He exhales through his teeth, his fingers tightening on the desk edge.
I don't rush, even when every nerve in my body is screaming to, even when I'm so hard it hurts. I'm not an asshole. He trusts me.
Two fingers. He rocks back onto them, instinctive, greedy, and I press my free hand against his hip to hold him still.
"Patience, pet," I murmur.
"Fuck patience," he gasps into the desk.
I chuckle and curl my fingers and find the spot that makes his whole body seize.
Three fingers. Stretching him, feeling the tension give way in pulses, his body learning to take what I'm giving. His breathing is ragged now; he's moaning and whimpering. My thoughts are possessive and primal.
I withdraw my fingers. He whines, but I'm already slicking myself, already lining up, the head of my cock pressing against him. I can't wait a second longer.
"Breathe for Daddy," I say. And push in, slowly.
The office fills with his broken cry and my groan.
I feel his heat enveloping me, pressing around me, the best feeling in the world.
He's tight, impossibly tight even after preparation, and the heat of him nearly undoes me right there.
I force myself still. Hold. Let him adjust, even though every muscle in my body is coiled and screaming.