Page 4

I stopped in front of the spanking bench and released JJ’s ear. He straightened, rubbing at the spot with one hand, his blue eyes wide and already starting to shine. I gave him one look. He stopped talking.

I sat down on the edge of the bench, my weight settling into the sturdy frame, and reached for him. He came across my lap, his body folding over my thighs, his fingers finding my ankles.

“Daddy—”

“Quiet.”

When I hooked my fingers into the waistband of his jeans and briefs and pulled them down to his knees, JJ made a desperate sound into the leather padding.

“Please—”

“No begging, boy. It will do you no good,” I said.

I brought my hand down with a firm slap — palmed, not curled, the way he liked it best — and JJ jerked across my lap with a yelp that he tried, and failed, to stifle in the crook of his elbow. I gave him a second to catch his breath, then landed another, and another, settling into a slow rhythm. JJ’s breathing went from steady to shredded in the space of a dozen swats. He made these frantic gasps with every impact, burying his face deeper into the leather padding like it would save him. It wouldn’t.

His hips twisted with each strike, and his legs kicked in a way that was more spectacle than escape. If he’d wanted out, he’d have used his words. This fighting was for the audience as much as for me. His sneakers kept losing traction on the floor, his jeans and briefs tangled around his knees, and his hands scrabbled uselessly at the legs of the bench. I kept him anchored with one arm around his waist, hand pressed flat to the stretch of pale skin, feeling the nervous tremble and the heat blooming under my palm.

Gustav was pretending to polish glasses behind the bar, Mel and Henry were peeking around, and even the two new girls at the corner table had stopped their conversation to stare. I never minded an audience for this sort of thing. Neither, if I was honest, did JJ.

I let each swat fall exactly where it would do the best, spacing them just far enough apart for the sting to build. Pink blotches were already blooming across his skin, and I shaded in every spot that looked neglected. JJ tried to squirm away from the next strike, and I shifted my hold, moving the hand at his waist down to steady his thighs. He let out a helpless, whimpery “Daddy!” and I almost laughed, but didn’t. He’d get exactly what he’d earned, not a moment less.

After a minute or two, JJ’s struggles turned to shivers, and his voice pitched up, each cry ragged. I felt the shift. He was close to the edge of what he could take, but not past it — he wanted to be wrung out, wanted to be seen and punished and forgiven in front of the people he loved. I made sure to give him everything he needed.

I picked up the pace, alternating harder, sharper smacks with the occasional long, gentle press of my palm, letting him feel both the bite and the comfort. JJ’s breathing fractured into the kind of sobs that meant he was almost there, almost empty enough to let go of everything else. He made one last wild kick and went limp across my knees, hands slack.

I leaned in so he could hear me. “I know you can take a bit more, baby. You’re doing so well.”

He nodded without lifting his head, hair wild and sticking to his damp forehead.

“Good boy,” I said, and finished the set, painting the last few strokes with the same calm. When I stopped, JJ was shaking, his pale skin shot through with red. I let him breathe, just for a moment. Then, for the audience, I ran my hand down the length of his back, slow and gentle.

When I reached for my belt, JJ’s whole body went rigid.

I rose and planted my feet firmly behind the bench, nudged JJ upright by the shoulder, and gave him the look that meant I wouldn’t repeat myself. He moved to obey, and as he bent over, he gripped the sides of the bench with both hands, bracing for what was coming. His jeans and briefs were still bunched around his knees. If he was embarrassed by the exposure, he never let it slow him down; JJ’s embarrassment was the battery that powered half our household. And the boy was hard as a rock.

The hush in the room was even more pronounced now. I could feel every pair of eyes watching the drama at center stage, greedy. Nothing here made the regulars happier than someone committing to a scene with everything they had. I let the silence stretch long enough for JJ to start squirming. Then I doubled the belt in my hand and let the end dangle, just enough for him to hear the faintest whisper of leather brushing the floor. He tensed. His shoulders hunched, and he pressed his face into the padded top of the bench.

When the first strike landed, he tensed harder. The line of red bloomed across his skin, and I admired the contrast. I gave him a beat to process, just a heartbeat or two, and then I brought the belt down again, carefully spaced beside the first. JJ’s whole body flinched, and for a half-second I thought he might let go of the bench, but he only dug his fingers in tighter. His voice was ragged and wet.

“Daddy, please, I’m really sorry — I didn’t mean — I’ll be good—”

He wasn’t lying, but he wasn’t trying to get out of anything, either. JJ’s talent for disaster was only rivaled by his appetite for consequences. I focused on keeping my own emotions out of it, kept my hands steady, my voice even. I bent low, close enough that he could hear me. “Not yet, baby. You know better.”

He shivered. I watched the way his back rose and fell with each breath, the way his thighs trembled against the bench, and I measured out the next blow — never too much. If you were going to correct someone, you had to do it right: with intention, with the kind of care that made the point stick but didn’t break anything.

The third stroke landed, and this time JJ kicked his foot behind him, purely reflex, but didn’t lose his hold. I watched his knuckles go white, and I slowed down, just a little, to give him a chance to catch up.

I looked up and caught Mel’s eye; she was grinning, like she’d gambled on JJ’s antics and won big. Henry was biting his lip, torn between horror and delight. Even Gustav, who’d seen everything, was leaning in, trying not to look too obvious about it.

I returned my focus to the boy bent in front of me. He was shaking. He needed to feel the forgiveness burn its way through every layer of guilt and adrenaline. I knew exactly how to get him there. I shifted my stance, angled the belt a fraction higher, and delivered a fourth, then a fifth. JJ’s cries got higher, breathier. A few tears spilled down his cheeks and soaked into the bench padding.

He gasped, “Daddy, I can’t — I can’t—”

I set my hand on the small of his back. “Yes, you can, sweetheart. Just a bit more.”

He sobbed. I kept going. JJ’s hips squirmed and stilled and squirmed again, his fingers clenched white around the bench, his voice thin and breaking around apologies that came faster with each stroke. I only stopped when it crossed from performance into real surrender. Then I gave him the final few strokes, because JJ had a talent for bouncing back from consequences faster than they could settle, and I wanted this one to stay with him. When I stopped, I laid my hand flat against the warm skin of his ass and let it rest there.

“Are you sorry now?” I asked.