“Y-you said we had to wait until–”
“It’s been two days. Do you want to call me Daddy, Tommy?” He pauses his spanks, letting his hand rest on my roasting ass over my underwear, heating me up in a different way. I pant, nod, shake my head.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“That’s fine, I’ll ask again later.”Spank!“Are you hard, Tommy? Does this turn you on?”
“Y-es!” He spanks me again and the soreness is all consuming. But I want– “More!”
“Yeah, until you bruise,” he agrees, “I bet we’re nearly there. So hold your hard dick, and think about how much you like my attention, how much you need my care, and then think about how I’m going to put cream on your sore bottom afterward. For your. Own. Good.”
Each final word is accompanied by a spank, driving my hips forward into my own hand, and before I know it, before I can prepare, before I realize what’s happening-
“Oh fuck,Daddy–” White-hot pleasure-pain rips through me. My vision fades and I shout, almost falling over. Young-gi catches me and I let out a pathetic sobbing sound as I cum, wetness spreading through my underwear to my palm, everything inside me shaking like a leaf in a storm. It radiates through me, ripping me to shreds, pulling me apart at the seams, and it’s euphoric.
I barely pay attention as Young-gi sits me down in his office chair. He doesn’t even pull my pants back up, just pushes me down–sore ass and all–in my underwear, with the denim caught around my thighs. I look down at myself, and feel…
Small. But good. So fucking good.
And shocked.
Because–
“I’ve got to hop off,” Young-gi says to the people on the other side of his screen. “Something’s come up. Send me the notes.”
Once the computer is dark and off, I ask the stupid, obvious question, “Did I just…cum?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Should I…apologize?” I cringe a little, my mind waking up. Surely, he didn’t mean for me to get off on that. Right? I’m messing everything up again–
He grips my chin and catches my gaze. “No. You will never apologize for the way your body reacts to me. There are no expectations or rules or forbidden acts. How you feel is how you feel. I want to make you feel everything.”
“...Oh.”
And what else can I say to that? He gets me some water, gives me some Advil, and produces wipes from some-fucking-where so I can wipe myself clean. He checks my ass, makes sure there aren’t actually serious marks on me, and I just let him. I feel all empty and hollow, but in a really good way. He asks me if I want to go home for a nap or wait in the lobby or order some food. But I say no.
I just pick up my sketchbook and pencil and sit at my table, the table he brought in just for me. And by the time he’s on his next meeting, I’m simply existing and drawing with a clear, lightweight mind and a sore as hell bottom.
And his eyes are on me the whole time.
Chapter 24
Tommy
My ass hurts.
But instead of bothering me, annoying me, or confusing me, I honestly feel…better. Every time Young-gi does shit like this, I feel hollowed out, like he pulled some kind of sickness out of me. I’m left with the empty space that it used to fill, but instead of feeling bereft, it’s cathartic.
After foisting his last meeting onto some other poor schmuck, he takes me home while I’m still feeling spacey. Then, like I’m a puppy or some shit, he feeds me and gives me water, and more Advil. He’s practically coddling me, but it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to own me. It’s almost relaxing, in a way. I’m not used to it.
Eventually, I go take a shower. I turn the pressure up, tilt the showerhead at just the right angle, then lean over and let the hot water pound directly onto my ass, gasping at the way the tenderness has turned into a deep ache. I find myself laughing under the stream like a lunatic. It feels good.
I spend way too long staring at myself in the mirror, wearing soft clean clothes and wondering if that’s really me standing there looking so chilled out. Would the Tommy I was two weeks ago even recognize me? I mean, yeah, that’s the face I’ve always had. But I swear I’m filling out my clothes better, my skin is glowing. All this food I’m chowing down on the daily is going a long way, but it’s more than that. It’s mental, it’s emotional; it’s that look in my eyes.
Like…what the fuck is that look? I lean over the counter, inspecting myself like I’m staring at a stranger. And I kind of am.
Because I don’t think I’ve ever seen myself without my eyebrows pulled down in a scowl or in suspicion, or at least in my usual, wary state of ambient skepticism. I look…younger? I don’t know, I mean, I’m somewhere between twenty-six and twenty-nine by my best guess, and I think I’ve always looked like it…but I never realized how that squint of distrust around the corners of my eyes ages me.
