Chapter 17. Ford #2
I push the hem of his t-shirt up to the small of his back, baring him completely. The skin there is smooth and pale and delicious. I rest my hand on the curve of his ass. Just resting it there, letting him feel the size of my palm, the heat of it, the promise.
He shivers.
"Color?" I ask.
"Green," he says immediately. His voice is slightly muffled against the mattress, but the enthusiasm is unmistakable. "So green. The greenest green that ever…"
The first smack cuts him off mid-sentence. It's not gentle, but it's not my hardest either. A firm, open-palmed strike across the center of his right cheek. He gasps, his whole body jolting forward across my lap.
I don't pause. I don't count. I don't give him a number to anticipate or a rhythm to predict. I just spank him.
My hand falls again, this time on the left side, then back to the right, then lower, catching the sensitive crease where his ass meets his thighs. He yelps at that one, his legs kicking involuntarily, and I press my left forearm firmly across the small of his back, holding him in place.
"Stay," I say, and he stills, though his fingers curl against the carpet. "Good boy."
I keep going. The sound fills the room. His skin blooms pink under my hand, then deeper, a warm rosy flush spreading across both cheeks.
I can feel the heat radiating off him with each strike, can feel the way his muscles clench and release, clench and release.
He's vocal, I learn that quickly. Little gasps and whimpers and sharp exhales, punctuated by the occasional groan.
He squirms across my lap, his hips shifting, and I adjust my hold on him, keeping him secure.
"You've been asking for this," I say, my voice low and steady. "Haven't you, brat?"
"Yes," he breathes. "Yes, Daddy."
I spank him harder, with enough force that each strike lands with real weight behind it.
He cries out, his back arching, his fingers scrabbling at the carpet.
I can see the muscles in his thighs trembling, can feel how his breathing has gone ragged and uneven against my legs.
And there's no ignoring how he's grinding against my thigh, so worked up, leaking. I love it and the effect it has on me.
His skin turns from pink to a deep, angry rose.
I vary my strikes. Sometimes a rapid flurry of lighter smacks that make him squirm and whine, sometimes a single deliberate blow that makes him cry out and go rigid.
I pay attention to every reaction, every flinch, every shift of his hips.
He starts to break somewhere around what must be the tenth minute.
Not in a bad way. In the way that good subs break when the endorphins flood their system and the walls they've built start to crumble.
His squirming slows. His whimpers soften into something more surrendered, more open.
His body goes heavy across my lap, his muscles releasing their tension one by one until he's practically melting over my thighs.
"There you go," I murmur, and I feel him shudder at the gentleness of my voice contrasted with the relentless sting of my hand. "There's my good boy."
A sound escapes him. Something raw and aching that isn't quite a moan and isn't quite a sob. I keep spanking him, but I ease up slightly, letting the strikes become more rhythmic, more grounding. His breathing steadies into something deeper, slower.
His ass is burning under my palm now, and my palm is burning too, but I ignore it. He's gone quiet except for these soft, breathy sounds, almost like he's floating, and I recognize it. Subspace. Or at least the edges of it.
I give him a few more. Slow, each one with intention. And then I stop.
My hand rests on his heated skin, and he flinches at even that gentle contact before pressing back into my touch, seeking it, craving it. I rub slow circles across the marks I've left, feeling the raised warmth under my fingertips. His breathing is shaky, his body trembling in small aftershocks.
"Color?" I ask again, softer this time.
It takes him a moment. When his voice comes, it's wrecked. Hoarse and small and nothing like the sharp-tongued brat who opened the door twenty minutes ago.
"Green," he whispers. "So fucking green."
I let out a breath. My hand continues its slow, soothing path across his skin, and I feel him melt further into me, boneless and trusting. Completely undone. This chaotic, reckless, infuriating boy is surrendered and soft and trembling across my lap.
"You did so well," I tell him. "You took that beautifully, Jude."
He makes a small, broken sound at his own name. Then he giggles and says, softly, but still bratty: "I told you, I've taken a billion spankings before. This is nothing."
"Brat," I say, chuckling.
We stay like that for a long time. The breeze from his window cools the sweat on both our skins. Somewhere in the apartment, I hear Noa turn on music. Something like reggaeton.
I don't rush him. I don't move him. I just stroke his burning skin and let him come back to himself at his own pace, because this, this quiet aftermath, is just as important as everything that came before it. Maybe more.
Eventually, he stirs. His head turns, and I catch a glimpse of his face. Flushed and damp, his lashes clumped together, his lips swollen where he must have bitten them. But his eyes, when they find mine, are clear and bright and shining.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi," I say back, and I can't help it. I'm smiling.
"That was…" He trails off, blinking slowly. "Yeah. That was."
"Eloquent," I say, and he laughs.
"Shut up," he mumbles, but there's no bite to it. There's nothing but softness in him right now, and I find myself wanting to protect him fiercely, irrationally, with everything I have.
"Let's get you up," I say gently. "Slowly."
I help him ease off my lap, guiding him carefully until he's sitting beside me on the bed. He winces as his raw skin makes contact with the sheets and immediately shifts onto his hip, hissing through his teeth.
"Ow," he says, with the most indignant look on his face, as if the soreness has personally offended him.
"That's the point," I say dryly, and he snorts.
I reach for the glass of water on his nightstand - there is one, miraculously - and hand it to him.
He takes it, drinking deeply without me having to tell him this time, and I watch his throat work as he swallows.
When he lowers the glass, he looks at me with those impossible honey eyes, and there's a vulnerability there that I suspect very few people get to see.
"Thank you," he says. Quietly. Sincerely. No bravado, no deflection.
"You're welcome," I say.
And there he goes again, the brat returning, but this time he's playful and happy, not bitter at all.
"You know, usually I'm made to thank my Doms. I don't normally do it on my own. You really do something to my head."
"Don't worry, I'll make you beg for other things," I say, and once again he seems surprised I know exactly what to say to him.
I kiss his forehead, and he rests his head on my shoulder, exhaling deeply, the kind of exhale that comes after a long cry.
I love this version of him, and I silently vow to bring him here as often as I can, because I know he loves it too.