Page 6 of My Family

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.

His hands scrabble against the desk. Then his spine curves, his hips push back, and I feel the exact moment he's ready because his body opens around me.

I pull back and drive forward. The desk scrapes against the floor, a sound so loud in the locked office that under any other circumstances I'd stop. I don't stop. Outside, the muffled chaos of the rec room- pinball, voices, the thud of bodies on the trampoline- covers us, or I hope it does. Either way, I'm past caring.

I grip his hips. Firm enough that my fingers press pale divots into his skin, firm enough that they'll leave bruises by morning that he'll press his own fingers into tomorrow, remembering. I've seen him do it. Touch the marks I've left while he thinks I'm not watching, his expression sore and satisfied. It does something to me that I can't articulate without sounding unhinged.

The rhythm builds. Deep, angled, each thrust calculated to hit the place that makes him fall apart, because I know his body. He grips the far edge of the desk with white knuckles, his back arching, the tattoos on his body shifting with the strain of his muscles. The sounds he's making are getting louder. Frantic. Beautiful and dangerous.

"Quiet," I manage, but my own voice is wrecked, barely recognizable.

"I can't! Daddy, I can't…"

I lean forward, my chest pressed against his back, and cover his mouth with my hand. His moans vibrate against my palm, muffled but not silenced. His breath comes in hot bursts against my fingers, and his tongue grazes my palm, and the sensation is unexpectedly intimate and ridiculously delicious.

I increase the pace. Harder. His body takes everything. The desk slams against the wall in a rhythm that makes plausible deniability a distant memory. I feel him tighten around me, feel the tremor, everything. And then, I know that’s it.