Page 5 of My Family

"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."