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Connor’s breath comes out fast and shallow against the bedding as he waits for the next strike. His thighs tremble with anticipation, his ears on high alert for the sing of the belt through the air. His ass burns in red-hot stripes. If he dared to move his hands, he’s sure he would feel welts. He dribbles more arousal at the thought and Hank sneers.
“Look at you. Filthy.” Connor’s face burns redder than his backside and he’s unprepared for the impact. He sucks in a sharp inhalation as Hank’s belt lays a new stripe across the previous ones. The corners of Connor’s eyes prickle in the presage of tears, half-delirious from painful arousal.
His chest hurts from panting and he startles badly when Hank drags the thick strip of leather across his stinging cheeks. He can’t suppress a whimper when the tail end of it brushes across his exposed hole, still slick from his earlier ministrations.
“What did I tell you?” Hank’s voice is deceptively calm and the belt slaps lightly against Connor’s pristine inner thigh. A soft moan drools over his lips at the contact.
“No touching,” Connor whispers the words, eyes closed. He’d been caught red-handed, two knuckles deep.
Hank makes a tsking sound before speaking again, “And what were you doing when I came home early from work?”
Connor grimaces, not wanting to say the words aloud, “I was—I was being disobedient.” He holds his breath, waiting to see if Hank will accept the answer.
He cracks an eyelid and sees him tapping his cheek in thought, “Color?”
Connor’s heart tries to punch its way out of his chest as he answers, “Green.”
The arc, the snap, comes faster than expected and Connor keens when the belt connects with a meaty slice of buttock just above the thigh. His dick hardens in warning. It’s his sweet spot and Hank knows it.
“Don’t you dare,” Hank growls and Connor squeezes his legs together tightly, pleading with his body not to come. Hank hadn’t given him permission to move, but this crime was minor compared to getting off without Hank’s say so.
Hank grants him a small reprieve, gives him time to calm down. After a slow, agonizing minute passes, he rumbles, “Back in position.”
With a shaking hand, Connor stretches his arms wide again, palms down on the mattress, ass high in the air. When his shifting ceases, Hank’s stance hardens, “Four. Count them.”
Connor nods; he knew a micro-punishment was sure to follow an additional infraction. The blows are mild in comparison and Connor counts through them without difficulty.
His body sags in relief when Hank slips the belt back through the loops encompassing his thick waist, misinterpreting the action.
Hank looms down until his lips are close enough to breathe hot words into Connor’s ear, “We aren’t done, boy.”
Connor whimpers at the slide of a drawer. He knows what Hank keeps in his bedside table, both for punishment and pleasure.
A paddle hits the mattress with a soft fwump. Even without it being inches from his nose, Connor knows what it says. Laser-etched in reverse, BRAT stares back at him in the unforgiving mahogany.
“H-How many?” Connor’s voice comes out wrecked around the question and it takes him a couple of tries.
He can hear the deep current of sinister intent in Hank’s answer, “How many would you say you earned?”
Connor swallows hard, the mental image of the word emblazoned across his ass, his thighs, dancing unprompted through his mind.
He whines as another trickle of his arousal ooze out onto the bedding. He wants to touch himself so badly, for Hank to take hold of his dick and—
Hank clears his throat and Connor exhales his answer, “Seven.”
Hank nods and a light smile touches the corners of his mouth and eyes. It’s gone faster than blinking, but Connor preens on the inside at picking a pleasing number.
“Keep track of them, please,” Hank murmurs as he adjusts his grip around the paddle handle.
Where the belt sang, the paddle whistles. The impact is broader, firmer. Instead of melding into the skin like the strap, the paddle forces Connor’s flesh to mold to its shape. It’s powerful, consuming, and demands the entirety of Connor’s attention.
“One.” Connor’s voice is still calm even if his throat tries to constrict around the word.
When the fourth strike lands lower on his thigh than expected, Connor sobs his response. Tilting Connor’s chin with the end of the paddle, Hank murmurs, “Color?”
Connor blinks, assessing. Hank waits, patient.
“Yellow,” he casts his eyes down as he says it, but Hank forces them up to meet his cool, blue gaze.
“Almost there.” Connor nods at the reassurance. Still, he wishes Hank would touch him. He knows he won’t. He knows the consequences for overt disrespect; soft touch will have to wait. Even as Hank painted Connor’s backside in various strokes of red, he’s yet to put his own hands on him.
The fifth smack lands safely in the jiggle of his right buttock; the sixth lands directly on top of it and Connor’s hips nearly collapse.
Wet spots blossom into life in the bedding around Connor’s eyes as the small pools of his dribbling arousal grow from a few dimes to quarter-sized embarrassment. Even so, sensual anticipation snakes up his spine. The final strike was almost always followed by earth-shattering—
“FUC—SEVEN!” The final, punishing blow lands across both cheeks and it’s a struggle for Connor to remain on his knees. He wants to dip his hips into the mattress. He wants to hump and rut into his own little puddle of arousal until he comes with a shriek.
He just needs Hank to give him permission.
It doesn’t come.
“Put that away, please,” Hank says gently as he sets the paddle down next to Connor’s face. With permission to move, Connor rises gingerly as his stinging flesh shifts over contorting muscles. The brand on the back of his thigh is going to be hell to sit on in the morning. Blood thrums through his dick at the thought.
When he bends, he can hear Hank let out a low, feral sound as he takes in the imprints of his efforts. Before Connor can crawl into Hank’s lap, Hank angles him slightly, “Look at yourself.”
Connor’s head turns to peer over his shoulder at the mirror mounted to the back of the door. Livid, mottled red skin shines back at him like a beacon directing his gaze. BRAT stands out in relief in several places and he reaches around to finger along one of the B’s. He shivers as he brushes over the raised skin.
“Beautiful,” Hank says it so softly, Connor almost misses it. He melts into his chest and offers no resistance when Hank rolls them to their sides.
“I’m sorry,” Connor murmurs with downcast eyes.
Hank snorts, “Unlikely” in response, but his tone is fond.
When Connor finds Hank’s hand, he pulls it closer to his aching dick. Hank snatches it away when it becomes clear what Connor is after, “None of that.”
Connor’s jaw opens and closes in silence like a catfish surprised to find himself out of his pond.
Hank sighs, tightening his arms around Connor’s thin frame, “What makes you think you deserve it?”
Lust-fueled panic grips him and he humps lewdly against Hank’s thick, hairy thigh, “Hank, please!” He finds himself pressed deeper into the mattress for his efforts.
“I don’t reward bratty behavior,” Hank says quietly against Connor’s forehead before pressing a kiss to the center. Connor briefly considers fighting him, he’s so addled by the throbbing need between his legs. Hank pulls him closer, tighter so that Connor’s dick is trapped between them. His grip is unyielding and doesn’t leave Connor any room to seek friction.
His breathing shifts to gulping and a hysterical sound bubbles up his throat. Hank shushes him, running one broad hand down his spine, “I’ve got you. Color?”
Connor wants to scream red into Hank’s jugular, but the question snares at his attention. Hank is concerned about him and the realization allows a modicum of calm to take root in his belly. Connor knows he could get his way if he lies, but it would be tarnished, less fulfilling. He swallows as a small, resistant voice shrieks at him to say red.
“Yellow.”
“Thank you for your honesty,” Hank murmurs the words somewhere above Connor’s ear, coating him to his toes in Hank’s gratitude. It had taken time to establish this degree of faith in his words. Connor had been prone to lie through his teeth to get what he wanted in the beginning. It had nearly cost him their relationship with so much relying on trust.
“How long?” Connor tries not to whine, but neediness coats his words.
“Tomorrow,” Hank says around a stretch as he releases his grip on Connor’s taut frame, no longer concerned about him bucking himself to an undeserved release. He rises and catches Connor’s chin between the circle of his forefinger and thumb, “If you can behave yourself.”
Connor’s answer is to surge to his feet to press a wet kiss to Hank’s lips. Hank’s fingers trace gently over raised lettering on Connor’s ass and a growl works up his throat seemingly without his bidding.
“Help me with dinner?” Connor nods, searching around for his underwear. Hank snags it and tucks it under his arm, “Wear an apron. I want to see my handiwork.”
Connor mutters a few choice names under his breath as he stalks from the room with as much dignity as his nakedness allows. Hank grins, already daydreaming about how loud he’s going to make Connor scream as he fucks and strokes him to completion in the morning.