I wait in the room, staring at the corner. Beige walls. And I hear his footsteps approach. My breath draws short. Each footfall is an eternity away, the thump echoing from hardwood. I judge his position by the quality of the sound. Softer as he steps onto the throw rug. My body tenses when I feel his heat behind me. A hand, rough with strong, squared fingers, rubs along the nape of my neck. He kisses me between the shoulder blades, trailing down, tracing my spine. He leaves off just before touching my bare ass.
I feel his hand again. He traces the outline of my collar, pressing leather gently into the skin. My mouth quivers. My everything quivers at his touch. I close my eyes, smell his cleanness. I am his, tonight.
His voice is molten, flowing over me, heat to the bone, to the core, to the soul. "Follow me."
I turn my gaze to the floor and stay behind his footsteps, following smooth-shaven calves to the bed. When he sits, I kneel, push my head to the floor.
He touches me again, fingers kneading the soft skin of my ass, working down, pressing into the hole. But not inside. Not yet. I know I haven't earned the right.
"Across my lap."
Without a word, I rise and lay over his knees, let my body go limp. My cock presses against the warmth of his thigh. I'm already partway hard.
He strokes the curve of my hip, then up. I can only wait. Sound will prolong it. Flinching will prolong it. His hand leaves and I can't help but tense. Even knowing the pain it will cause, I can't fight the reaction.
His hand lands on the tender skin, heat, stinging pain. One cheek, then the other. He says nothing, doesn't count, and each strike is harder. When he hits me, my body moves, rubbing my cock against smooth thigh, hardening me.
I keep track in my head. Fifteen strikes to each side, and he keeps his rhythm. I breathe with them, keeping as silent as I can. In when he pulls back, out with each swat of the hand. Soon, I hardly feel a thing, just the impact, his skin to my skin, heat to heat, rough to smooth.
And he stops. He rubs my shoulders, leaving my ass to radiate heat and pain as everything settles. I feel the wetness of precome I left on his leg.
"Sit in the corner." He wraps his fingers into my hair and guides me up. I go. It's on the opposite side of the room. The hard wooden chair. I cringe as I lower myself into it. It hurts to sit, and he knows it. And he knows that I won't move. I am his.
He puts a hand on my shoulder. "Jack off."
I do, and the thrill fills me. This is new. I do not question.
I never question him.