BRIANS POV

You awake after that fuck to Justin sitting cross-legged on the bed with two bowls in his hand and a huge smile on his face. “What did you make?” you ask and grinning, he says, “Macaroni and cheese. The good kind. And don’t say you won’t eat it because I saw you almost eat that cheese downstairs.” He hands you a bowl and you scoff at the huge portion size, funneling half of yours back into his bowl. “That was hours ago,” you remind him, “It’s way too late for cheese.”

“Eat. It,” he orders so you acquiesce because it’s the last order you’ll take from him tonight.

……

After dinner is your time with him, and he knows it. “How do you want me?” he asks when he returns from cleaning up dinner.

“On your stomach,” you say. You straddle his legs and examine him—every bruise, every welt, every inch of disturbed skin. It’s the cruel trade off in this pleasure—blemishing his beautiful body. “Where’s your pain?” you ask him, “On a scale of one to ten.”

“Four? I still feel pretty numb.”

“I’ll leave pain killers on your night stand tonight. I think you’re going to be really sore tomorrow.”

“I’m going to miss you tomorrow. That’s painful, too,” he says quietly.

You lay down beside him, your hand on his back, “We need to talk about this week.”

“What about it?”

“I’m not going to spank you this week, at least through Thursday. Your body has been through enough.”

He lifts his head, “Brian, no. Don’t say that now. Let’s just take it day by day.”

“No,” you resist, “That never works with you. I want you to forget about it this week. Be productive; enjoy yourself without your hand in your pants.”

He lays his head back down and sighs, “I hate this.”

“Well, we can make it until next Sunday if you want to be a baby about it.”

“No, I don’t want that.”

“This week, we’re going to focus on obedience. Maybe you’ll be better at it when your mind isn’t cluttered with anticipation.” He starts to rise up and bitch again and you stop him, “I don’t want to hear that tonight. The decision is made. Understand?”

Another dramatic sigh as his pretty blond head hits the pillow, “Fine, Brian.”

You instruct him that he needs to be quiet, that he can close his eyes if he wants to, that you just want to touch him, to look at him, to admire him. You tell him that just watching your fingers roll down his hair, down his back and his bottom makes a gratefulness rise inside you, that it’s a rush for you just to see him like this. That seems to calm him and his hand sneaks across the sheets and rests on your bicep.

But that doesn’t last long because you want to be on top of him; you want to smell his hair; you want to feel the warmth behind his ear, kiss the curve of his neck and the rise of his shoulder blades. Now and again, he moans a little and sometimes even begs in a whisper for you to kiss him, but your face is too far away and settling into the dip in his lower back. You keep going, your lips skimming over his ass and down the back of his legs, and though the way back up goes much quicker, it’s just as beautiful, and Justin is in your arms even quicker, kissing you almost rabidly. “Settle down,” you chide him, “There’s no rush.”

His voice his breathy, “What do you want? I’ll do anything.”

You smile, “I don’t need you to do anything—except maybe relax.”

“I can’t,” he pants, “I can’t relax.” His hands start wandering down your chest, and you have to pull them back up. “Brian, please,” he protests, “Let me touch you.” He sounds so completely desperate that you want to come undone right then and there and bury yourself inside him, but you settle for something less, allowing his hand to move. You get a ticklish rush when he cups your balls and pushes the back of his hand against your cock. “Oh, god, you’re so hard,” he breathes.

“For you.”

“I’ll suck you. Please. I can almost taste you,” he pleads.

“How am I going to kiss you if you’re sucking my cock?” you ask him letting your index finger play on the edge of his lips. You take his hand from your cock and pin it behind his back, “Talk to me. Tell me what’s making you so breathless.”

He slides his leg over your legs and ruts against you, his face buried in your neck, “Everything is making me crazy. What we did today makes me crazy. You paddled me for humiliating you; you punished me. That drives me absolutely nuts.”

A less-than-innocent smile spreads over your face, “You liked that, huh?”

“I loved it. I want to be punished…like that…for something real.”

You praise him, stroke his hair, hold his face in your hand. “I’m proud of you tonight…very proud…so I’m going to fuck you, and you’re going to last as long as I want you to; I want to feel how tight your bottom is; I want to feel how sore you are; I want you to resist me.”

Justin holds onto you, rolling on his back; the only willful act you’ve allowed. “I’ll do anything for you,” he promises, “Anything.”

You spread his legs, urge them up and let him feel your cock hard between them. “Fight me,” you tell him. “Fight me like you do when I paddle you.” His knees squeeze your waist and his arms stiffen. Getting inside him is delicious and difficult, and the look on his face when you go deep is one of simultaneous relief and frustration, and you can feel him trying not to orgasm, see the conflict spread throughout his whole body. You can feel it in his hands that are wrapped around your upper arms. “I want you to forget about what you need, forget about your orgasm and just concentrate on pleasing me, Justin. You can do that. I know you can. You can come when I’m done with you.”

“Brian.”

“You owe me this after what you did to me today. Take me,” you order him, breaking through the cage his arms have tried to make and looping yours beneath his arm pits giving your hips the leverage you need. You have age and sexual exhaustion on your side tonight; he has nothing—except his feet pushing down on your ass, trying to force you into a more shallow position. You pull his hair, scold him, and fuck the shit out of him.