BRIAN’S POV
The bed frame has become a crutch for him, and he gladly let's go when you pull his hands off the pole and turn him around in your arms. There’s no gravity left in his world without you; he leans against your body as your hands travel lower, migrating to the site of your next endeavor. There’s something about him in that moment, something so viciously tender that it begins to steer the evening’s activities. Your touch softens; your voice lowers; you feel his body relying on yours even more. “It’s been a long time since you knew you were going to be spanked when I came from work, hasn’t it?” you ask him, his head laying against your chest. His body coils around yours as he responds making you feel more and more like a snake charmer. His answer is given after a very long kiss, “It’s been forever and a million days.”
“But you knew today, right? That’s why you couldn’t concentrate?”
“Yes.”
“Then why weren’t you ready for me?”
……
……
“I’m sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t mean it.
“’Sorry’ is not an answer.”
He tries again; his voice attracting anxiety like a magnet, “Because I didn’t know what time. You came home early.”
You attempt to clarify the situation, “So your contention is that if I’d walked in the door at five thirty, the situation would’ve been different?”
“Yes,” he says, oddly relieved.
“Justin?”
“What?”
“You may be a very hot piece of ass, but you’re a lousy liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Okay, correction: a hot piece of ass that’s about to get a lot hotter.”
“Stop it, Brian.”
“You can turn around and bend over now; we’re done talking.”
“No,” he protests, and his rhetorical resistance begins.
You abandon him, pulling your belt out of your pants, coiling it and setting it on the nightstand, watching him stand there while you undress, and when you’re finished, you sit down on the edge of your bed with an open posture, reach out and pull him closer to you, your knee now in between him and the bed; he’ll be bending over that as well. His thighs rest against your leg. “I vote to cut the bullshit,” you say, stroking him while he stands there, his cock beading in your hand. His hand rests heavy on your shoulder, holding him up. You ask him again, “Why weren’t you ready for me?”
“Because….” His answer is half-hearted because he’s distracted—by the attention you’re paying to his dick and even more so by the activity of your other hand; he’s watching you open the top drawer of your nightstand, take things out, and set them on the bed beside him. He sees something he didn’t know you had.
“Because why?” you ask him even though you know he’s not listening.
“I thought you said we were done talking.”
“We’re about to be done with everything, Justin. You’re wasting my time.”
*^*^*^*^*^*
He’s so hard just standing there in front of you that an elephant could use his dick as a diving board, and he wouldn’t even notice. He pinches your shoulder when he knows he’s going to come, reaches down and stops your hand. “Good boy,” you say quietly, your hand on the back of his leg urging him forward. You lean down beside him as he lies on your bed. “There’s a difference between spanked and being punished, right?" you ask him.
“Yes,” he says, his eyes locked on yours.
“And what’s the difference?”
“Being punished happens no matter what.”
“Now see, that’s what I love about you,” you remind him after you kiss him, “You can take the boy out of the dungeon, but never the dungeon out of the boy.”
He moans when you put your hand between his legs, but again his eyes move to your other hand which is inches away from his face. “I want your bottom to burn tonight,” you tell him, “So we’re going to track your progress.”
“Don’t,” he says when you shake the glass thermometer down.
“And I want you to start from zero,” you tell him as you flip open a tube of lube and hand it to him, “Hold this, please.” The second he touches it and realizes that it’s freezing cold, he begins to clue in on what you mean about being punished--his feet can’t reach the floor; his upper body is lying almost flat on the bedspread; his ass is trapped. He has no leverage; you own him. “Squeeze,” you tell him, your hand waiting above the tube and he won’t, so you do it for him, ignoring his recalcitrance, coating your finger. You stick the thermometer head down in the opening of the tube for later. He drops the tube and turns his head, refusing to look at you anymore. “If I were you, I wouldn’t make this any worse,” you warn him as you spread him apart and tease him with your finger, and he fights you at first, but when he feels how quickly everything heats up, he changes his tune, turns his head back around and says, “Don’t,” again, very quietly, over and over, and you shake your head, telling him to hold still as you push the thermometer inside him. “You better hold onto it,” you tell him, “Drop it and it’s a whole new day, trust me.”
It’s one of the most intense times he’s ever spent over your knee, afraid to move and charged with the task of deciding when the temperature reads at least ninety-eight point six when you remove it. “Check it, please,” he says when he’s had enough the first time. He’s off by less a degree. He gets the pleasure of your ice cold fingers inside him; you get the pleasure of watching him fuck them until they’re gone, replaced by the thermometer again, pushed so that it’s barely visible. You reach underneath him and encircle the base of his dick with your thumb and index finger, squeezing until you get a reaction out of him.
*^*^*^*^*^*
JUSTIN’S POV
He holds you, locks you where he wants you and spanks you again, even harder this time. Your heart’s pounding between your legs as the heat starts to radiate up your torso, a wicked echo timing itself to Brian’s hand until he stops because he hears you, “Check it again, please.”
“Much, much better,” he says as he slides the rod out, his hell-fire hot hand pushing you off of his lap and onto the bed. You feel the pressure of his hands pushing your legs apart and then the weight of his body on your lower back, his words whispered at the base of your spine, “Don’t think I’m done with you.”
“Please,” you beg him, with one hand curling around the edge of the bed and the other reaching back, pushing his head lower. The second he starts to move, your hand follows.
“I like that,” he says, kissing the tips of your fingers as you try to hold yourself open for him. He pushes your hand out of the way and then gifts you with his tongue, a warm soft paradise. His hands fan out to your inner thighs, holding you back as you try to come toward his face, and then he’s on top of you, smelling like you, kissing you, tracing your hairline with his finger. “I hope you feel as sore as you look,” he says, his mouth wet on the back of your neck.
“I do.”
“This is what you want? Every day when I come from work?”
“Yes.”
“To have to stop what you’re doing and pull your pants down for me?”
“Please.”
“Feel that?” he asks as he slides his cock between your cheeks.
“Yes.”
“I’m gonna come all over you.”
“Fuck me.”
“No, all over you. I want you to feel it. I want it to stick to you, all over you.”
He soaks your back with the hot truth.
……
…...
*^*^*^*^*^*
The room is dark in so many ways after that.
“And now it’s your turn,” he says, the weight of his body disappearing. His hands grip your hips and pull you back and up your knees. He makes you put your head down, makes you watch him slick the glass dildo that lives on your side of the bed—the ones that’s bigger than he is—with arctic lube. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” he asks when he’s kneeling behind you again.
“Oh god, don’t, don’t…” The cold, hard pressure hurts…and then it’s gone.
“Fuck.”
“Aren’t you?”
Your spanking resumes; it’s doubled in intensity, and your ass is empty and cold and when you start to migrate away from him, unable to stop yourself because the cold and the hot and the dark and the pain are all mixed up, a tug of war begins. He wins every time, stopping your spanking when he has to pull you back to him; you have to watch your fingers scrape along the top of the bedspread…and he starts again.
And again.
The burn starts to spread throughout your entire body; you can feel it in your shoulders, in your shins, on the back of your neck. The bed feels like a magic carpet like it’s no longer part of the floor or the room or the house, and then you feel the cold again, and the bed hits the floor.
Hard.
The cold, hard pressure hurts…so…good.
And then you find yourself standing on a cliff, the one on the edge of the universe. Your hand covers your face because you don’t want to see anything but darkness as you enjoy the shame of this, of what he’s about to do to you. “You’re a good boy,” he says again as he runs his very re-slicked fingers between your cheeks again, “Aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.” He rewards you by teasing you, barely pressing the cold glass tip of the dildo right where you want it, his fingers holding you open. “Come get it,” he says as he presses a little harder, “I want to watch you swallow it.” Your brain feels like it hit an ice slick; you can’t feel your legs anymore. He presses harder, “Good,” and you feel a sadistic warmth behind your eyes when you take the whole thing when the cold starts to melt away faster and faster. “You need to come for me,” he says almost sweetly, but there’s nothing sweet about it. At all.
There's a ferocity behind his request and the pressure he puts you under to perform for him...emotionally and physically.
*^*^*^*^*^*
BRIAN’S POV
He comes unglued when it’s over, trembling while you’re fucking him, while you’re making quick work of it because his bottom is so hot and tight, his body bucking underneath you, a reflex because he’s been in pain too long. You can’t get that sound out of your head, the one of him telling you to stop because it hurts too much, “Please, please stop, please.” Your fingers rip through his hair as you start to unload inside him.
He asks you for a cigarette when it's over.
You tell him he needs to wait a couple of minutes because you can’t remember how to smoke.
He draws a heart on the bedspread with his index finger.
*^*^*^*^*^*
twenty-three minutes later
You wake up from some weird dream and find yourself stuck to him with a potent mixture of sweat, cum, and lust. He wakes up when you’re no longer on top of him, confused like he can’t find you. “You’re okay?” you ask him once you get him situated on your bed like he’s supposed to be, and he mumbles some affirmative answer, his body curling into yours as he floats in his half-awake/half-asleep state, which basically just means that he purrs when you touch him and snores when you don’t.
“You make me ache,” he says when you pull him into your arms, and you think he’s done with that sentence, but he’s not, “Like a whore.”
You laugh because he’s so goofy when he’s not really awake, “Well, I’m happy to inform you that at this point and time, that’s still a free service.”
“Thank God, because whatever deal I’m getting, I know damn well I can’t afford.”
…….
“So do you feel like you belong to me?” you ask him. He smiles as you push the hair on his forehead out of the way so your lips can take its place. “Yes,” he says, “Very much so.”
“But I’m going to have to prove it to you again tomorrow?” you ask.
“Yep, I have a very short memory.”
“Well, you might, but I can assure you that your ass doesn’t.”
*^*^*^*^*^*
JUSTIN’S POV
an hour later…
You awake and the television is on, but you can barely hear it; Brian is awake, sitting up in bed reading a magazine, his body leaning toward the only lamp that’s illuminated on his nightstand. He feels you move and puts it down, his reading glasses folded on top. “You can read,” you say, but he shakes his head, and you feel like you have a hundred eyes on you again, only this time they don’t expect nearly as much from you, merely that you lie still as Brian examines you, searching for damage he’s done—tangible or intangible. “Don’t move,” he whispers in your ear as you lay spent in the sheets. You feel a cool breeze as the sheets are pulled back as you’re exposed. You’d complain but it does no good. He’d say that he wants nothing blue on you but your eyes. “The ones I see are from last night,” he tells you referring to the tiny bruises on your ass, “From the paddle.”
“I don’t care, Sherlock Holmes. Would you please quit?”
He gets out of bed, vanishes into the bathroom and returns, turning off the television and the light before getting back into bed. His slippery hands rub lotion down your back and lower still. “Does this hurt?” he asks you, and when you assure him that it doesn’t—even though it does--he presses a little harder. Your world is warm and dark when Brian gets up to wash his hands in the bathroom. You watch his shadowy form come back to bed, smiling as he lays down beside you. “Feel okay?” he asks you.
“Much better than okay.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I feel very satisfied.”
He feigns shock, “I satisfied you? Where’s my trophy?”
“It’s in the freezer,” you say, and he busts out laughing.
*^*^*^*^*^*
The next thing you know, you’re waking up and trying to get your eyes to focus on the clock on your dresser. It’s pointless; you can’t read it, so you roll over to ask Brian what time it is, but he’s not there. There’s a light on across the hall where his office is and when you call his name, he appears in your bedroom doorway wearing nothing but an old pair of navy sweat pants and holding a bowl of something in his hand. “What’s that?” you ask him.
“Chinese. I ordered. You want some?”
“Yeah and turn that fucking light off.” He disappears from the doorway, pulling the bedroom door shut behind him. He returns five minutes later with a matching bowl for you. You thank him and begin to sit up in bed, and that’s when you realize that sitting isn’t a really keen thing to be doing at the moment. You abandon that idea and stay on your stomach. “What time is it?” you ask him as you fork your vegetables.
“Nine thirty.”
“God, I’ve been asleep for awhile.”
“Yes, you have.”
You eat about half of what he brought you and hand it back to him, “I’m finished.” He sits it on the night table next to his, and then you watch as he undresses and gets back into bed with you. His hand rests on your shoulder, “I need to fuck you.”
You smile at him, “I hate when you beat around the bush.”
“Don’t say ‘bush’ when I’m hard. I just threw up in my mouth.”
“Well then don’t kiss me, okay?”
*^*^*^*^*^*
BRIAN’S POV
When he wakes up late the following morning, a cloudy Saturday one, his ass is killing him, but he refuses to admit it. A neighbor calls and asks if you’ll come over and help her install a ceiling fan, and you go because Justin’s extremely bitchy when he’s in denial and because if you don’t go, she’ll just keep asking. When you get back it’s almost four in the afternoon; Justin’s buried in bubbles in your bathtub watching a movie.
“Why don’t you just admit that your butt is killing you?” you ask him as you undress so you can join him.
“Why don’t you just admit that you only went over there because her son is home from college, and he’s the hottest fucking thing this town’s ever seen?”
“Present company excluded.”
“Of course.”
“Okay, I admit it.”
He laughs as you slide in behind him, relaxing back against your chest. “You don’t know shit about ceiling fans anyway.” He turns off the television and tosses the remote in the water; it floats away.
“I can read instructions, and I’m tall. That’s all that’s really required.”
“Twenty bucks say she wasn’t wearing a bra, and she came on to you the entire time,” he surmises.
“You should’ve made it a thousand.”
“That stupid bitch.”
“She’s just lonely and horny.”
He smacks the water and the bubbles fly up in the air, “Hello? You’re a fag! And you have a ring on your finger. What the hell does she think I am?”
“A pizza boy that never left?”
“You don’t eat carbs!”
“Unless they come in thirty minutes or less.”
……
……
……
It takes awhile, but you finally get him to shut up, turn around and sit down slowly; his head rests on your shoulder once you’re deep inside him. “You don’t have to move,” you offer, “This is fine. I just want to be inside you.” He reaches up and turns off the light over your head. “It hurts, but I like it when it hurts,” he says, his arms wrapped around you, “It’s a nice reminder of what you do to me.”
“You say that, but I still don’t like it,” you remind him.
“I know, but you’re just being a woobie.”
“Whatever. I don’t even know what a ‘woobie’ is.”
*^*^*^*^*^*
JUSTIN’S POV
When you both tire of the water, you relocate to the bedroom. That’s when you realize that Brian changed the sheets on the bed before he joined you and started the fireplace, turns out he can do household chores at his own house. The day is darkening fast; his hair is cold and wet between your fingers as he blankets you. The debriefing starts, unprompted but not unexpected…
“Tell me,” he begins, looking down at you, his body settling between your legs. His fingers run behind your head. “I want to know everything.”
“You already know.”
He smiles; you can feel it against your neck, “Please tell me anyway.”
“Can we do it the other way?” you ask him, and he feels your hand slip between you, feels you press your erection against his stomach. “Please.”
He sighs and shakes his head at you, “I’ll come too fast.”
“Please.”
He gives in and takes the lead for the time being, “Did you like having your temperature taken?”
“Jesus, now I’m going to come too fast.”
“Answer me.”
“That was your answer.”
“Nice and tight for me,” Brian whispers in your ear as he pushes inside you.
“What do you want for dinner?” you ask him trying to distract yourself.
“I’m taking you out tonight. You don’t need to worry about that.”
“You are? Where are we going?”
“Wherever your ass wants to go.”
“Are you implying that my ass is hungry?” you want to know.
“Are you implying that it isn’t?”
……
……
You take over because you know he wants you to, and the minute you start, you can feel the pleasure bleeding out from his pores, hear it in the low moan that begins to play as a soundtrack to your words, “I’ll go insane waiting for you to come home from work each day. It’ll be murder.”
“Murder, huh?”
“Death by anticipation.”
“God, don’t stop…you’re ass is so snug when you’re confessing.”
“You do something to me that I don’t think you even understand.”
He stops moving and lays his head on your pillow, “Christ, I almost lost it. Tell me.” Your hands run down his back, applying pressure when he tells you to, “Scratch.” He thanks you as you loan him your fingernails, listening to you, his lips lodged behind your ear. “Ever since the first night I met you, you know how to exploit my desire without exploiting me. That’s all.” Brian’s very still for a few seconds, and then he moves, hovering above you. He comes closer because he’s going to kiss you, but you stop him for a second, “That’s how I knew you loved me.”
He almost smiles but he kisses you before he has time, and the rest of the fuck is intensely claustrophobic, the way you’d fuck if you were trapped under a house in three feet of crawl space and couldn’t make a sound. “I’m going to tell you a secret,” he says as he’s about to bring it home for both of you. “What?” you ask.
“That’s how I knew I loved you, too.”
*^*^*^*^*^*
BRIAN’S POV
You take him out to dinner that night. He’s quiet in the car, surfing the touch screen for a restaurant he wants, flying through menu after menu, and then he looks at you when you get to a stoplight and says, “I want someplace dark.” You make a U-turn at the light and start driving the other direction. “Where are we going?” he asks you. “Cedar Tree; don’t think you’ve been there.” He starts pulling it up on the screen, “It looks nice.” You call them and request a table for two in the back. “They must not be busy tonight,” he says, and you correct him, “No, they don’t need to be; their wine list alone could be collateral for our house.” The woman who answered the phone is holding the door open for you when you pull up, “Good evening, Mr. Kinney, Mr. Taylor.”
“I can’t stand it when people call me ‘Mr. Taylor,’” Justin says as you walk to your table, “It’s so pompous.” “Look around you, Justin. You’re in pompous-ville central right now.” He sits so he’s facing the restaurant; you sit so you’re facing him. You have the better view.
Your waitress is overly attentive; you have water; you have bread; you have wine, and you have her all in the course of ten minutes. You order, and then Justin complains because, “I hate wait-people who think they have to memorize your order instead of writing it down. They just stare at you like a deer in headlights with that psychotic look on their face because they’re trying to do word association with your order so they’ll remember it when they get to the register. That is such a load of crap. One day, they’ll just have scanners and come up and smile and scan our brains.”
“I think you look really hot tonight,” you say.
“You never listen to a damn word I say.”
*^*^*^*^*^*
Your food arrives; you eat, and the more wine he ingests, the more touchy-feely he becomes, and then out of nowhere he asks you, “The paddle we have, is it cedar?” (Clearly, as far as he’s concerned, his ass isn’t done for the evening. His hints are always so subtle.)
“No, it’s not cedar. Do you feel like you’re in a storage chest surrounded by mothballs when I’m spanking you with it?”
“Why are a moth’s balls anyone’s business anyway?”
“Because they’re so big?” you propose. (You’re tempted to send all the wine back at this point and request a refund as it’s clearly rancid.)
“Good point,” he concedes.
“The paddle is walnut,” you tell him.
“Did you buy it because it had the word ‘nut’ in it?”
You try really hard not to bust out laughing as you tell him the truth, “Yes.”
“I figured.”
*^*^*^*^*^*
Justin tends to talk a little bit too loud (in his old age) when he’s drinking, so when he tells you he has to piss, the whole restaurant knows. You decide to follow him to the bathroom, secretly hoping that he’ll turn around halfway there and ask, ‘Why are you following me? Are we gonna fuck or something?’ You mess with your hair and fiddle with your tie, and when he’s all peed out and comes to the sink to wash his hands, you grab him and kiss him, and then he asks, “Jesus, do you want me to blow you right now?” An elderly gentleman who’s on his way to the restroom backs out immediately. Justin laughs and makes a joke about having a “wide stance.”
Desert is waiting at the table when you return, and this infuriates Justin because according to him he didn’t technically order desert, he merely indicated that something that the waitress suggested ‘sounded good.’ You order another bottle of wine to shut him up, and lie to Justin, “She asked if it was your birthday.”
“What? What did you say?” he asks you. “I said ‘no,’ but that I was going to spank you anyway.”
“Did you really say that?”
You nod your head, smile, and feed him a piece of cake. “And we’re not leaving until you finish this bottle.”
……
“Do you know that I’m a little drunk?” he asks you a few minutes later, and then he smiles the biggest smile you’ve seen all night and starts laughing.
“I like it when you’re a little drunk.”
“Tell me why and fill my glass back up,” he demands, plopping his wine glass down a little too hard on the table. You perform the second request first.
“Because you’re very easy when you’re drunk.”
“Ohmygod, that’s so stupid. I’m always easy.”
“And thirsty,” you point out because somehow he’s now drinking your glass of wine. “Finish your cake; I’ll be right back.”
You’re standing on the other side of the restaurant handing your waitress your credit card deciding it was better to go to her than to have her revisit your table in Justin’s currently deteriorating state, and right as you're signing your name, you hear him calling it, “Brian!” and you look up, and he’s holding up an empty wine glass like he’s toasting and before you can even answer him, he says, “I love you!”
And then the few people left in that corner of the restaurant are all staring at you, and you want to bust out laughing but figure you better answer him first, so you do. “Hey, Mr. Taylor? I love you, too!” And he cracks up like he’s never experienced anything so hilarious in his entire life, and when you return to the table to fetch him, he tells you he missed you so much, and on the way out, he tells your waitress that, “It’s okay to write things down; I worked in a diner once, and we wrote things down; you don’t have to pretend you’re a Mensa waitress.”
“Just ignore him,” you tell her, “It’s been a long night.”
“It was nice to drink your ridiculously expensive wine,” he adds. “Because we can afford it.”
“Now, I see why you spank him,” your waitress says. “God, he deserves it.”
And Justin is still talking back to her when you’re in the parking lot and no one is even listening, “He spanks me because he loves me, you—"
“Get in the car, Justin, or your next spanking will not come with a side of numb nuts.” You pull out of the parking lot and look over at him and he’s cracking up. “What the hell is so funny now?”
“You called me ‘Mr. Taylor!’”
*^*^*^*^*^*
Getting Justin sloshed in an establishment where people can actually hear one another speak—i.e. not Babylon—is always risky, but the payoff is worth it, and as you pull into the garage, he’s curled into a fetal position in his seat, facing you, with an expression on his face that can only be described as the way one would look if they’d been mauled by a pack of Care Bears. “You’re the hottest fucking man on the whole fucking hot fucking planet, Brian,” he says to you, and then he sighs like admitting that just sent endorphins on a fun run through his entire body. When you open his door for him, he looks up at you with this dreamy look on his face. “C’mon,” you say, and you take his hand. He leans on you as you unlock the door to the kitchen, and the door isn’t even all the way closed, and he’s all over you. “This is why I like you drunk,” you tell him as you lean against the island in the kitchen. He stands up on his tip toes and pulls you down so he can whisper in your ear, “I want to get on my knees right now.”
You unzip your pants as your hand slides around to the back of his head, “Make it quick.”
He drops with a smile on his face, and you close your eyes, one hand on his face, one hand on your dick, and you control the whole experience, pulling him back, pushing him down, teasing yourself until you can’t stand it, and then you cup the back of his head and fuck his face, so hard he pushes back, and when you're done, he’s kneeling on the floor, wiping his face; you help him up and take him to bed.
*^*^*^*^*^*
Years of fucking Justin when he’s under the influence have taught you to undress him last when he’s inebriated because if you don’t, he’ll be fast asleep by the time you’re ready to go so you get to undress while he lies on your bed watching The Love Boat on TVLand clutching the walnut paddle he wouldn’t stop blathering on about all the way home.
“Isaac and Gopher were totally doing it,” he insists when you pry the paddle out of his hands to undress him, “And the doctor was totally giving them the condom speech at every port they docked at, and they never listened. You can just tell they never listened.”
“That’s very insightful.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Howell are playing ‘shuffleboard’ on the Lido deck.”
“Wrong show, Sunshine.”
“Where’s the Skipper?”
“On the island.”
“Fantasy Island?”
“Gilligan’s Island. You’re way off.”
“This is hard.”
“Then let’s turn it off before it gets anymore taxing, okay?”
The room goes black as you slide into bed next to him. When you run your hand down his back, he hooks his leg over yours, pressing himself against you even harder. “You haven’t spanked me today,” he says, his reminder hangs in the air. You kiss him on the nose and then the mouth; he moans in response, and then you warn him, “Your ass is going to file a civil suit against you tomorrow.”
“I don’t care,” he says.
“Count to ten, okay?” you ask him, your hand poised for action on his bottom, his arms wrapped appreciatively around your neck.
“Okay.”
You smack his ass once and say, “One,” to get him started; he moans. One the second slap, he says, “One.”
“That was ‘two,’” you point out.
“Three.”
……
His hand meanders from its affectionate position around your neck to a more volatile location between his legs. You spank him again, and he says, “…One,” and you try not to laugh, taking over for him as he fades in and out. He goes back to wrapping himself around you, giving you a rather slurred order, “Tellmeyoulovemeandreallymeanitwhileyoujerkmeoff.”
“I love you and really mean it while you jerk me off.”
“God, Brian, I’mtootiredrightnow.”
“I know you are. Why don’t you go to sleep?” you ask him as his hips rock back and forth enjoying your grip. “I am,” he says, and indeed his upper body seems to be. After a couple of minutes of affectionate silence, the rest of him stills, but when you stop touching him because you think he’s out cold, he scolds you, ”Uh,” in his own sweet, sophisticated way, so you resume your activities, and he wakes up—sort of. ”Will…you…spank me…tomorrow?” he questions your neck.
“I will,” you promise him, “Roll over.”
“Why? You’re...gonnafuckme?”
“I am.”
……
“Mmm. ThisisthedesertIordered.
“I’m too…gonna…come…because…I’m…sleepy.”
“That’s okay.”
……
……
“Is is tomorrow yet?”
“No.”
“Whenisittomorrow?”
“When I put you across my lap; that’s when it’s tomorrow.”
……
…...
……
“Ilovetomorrow.”
“Not half as much as it loves you.”