BRIAN'S POV

There are times when just thinking about having Justin across your lap makes your day go by that much quicker, times when the irritating stresses of the day, the endless list of things you have to approve, people you have to motivate and supervise, customers that you have to schmooze, just become too much. Not that you can’t handle it, it’s a never a question of that. It’s a question of what you’d rather be handling.

You like to think that it’s the same for him, that being across your lap helps clear his mind of all of the competing images in his head, of that never-ending ambition inside of him that will never be quenched. You’ve never met an artist, mediocre or truly gifted, who’s ever satisfied with himself or what he created. And although the two of you are so different and want so many different things from your careers, you both know that neither one of you will ever call it quits without a fight.

And so the fight lives on, the drive inside of both of you only momentarily hushed by the thought of him bending over for you, of you paying extra special attention to the most deserving part of his body.

You may have known others over the years that engaged in this sort of behavior, who truly got off punishing, paddling, whipping, and caning. Over the years, you’ve certainly seen plenty of them sporting their fetishes at the Leather Ball at Babylon or a clandestine gathering where such things took place. But it’s never been about the act for you, it’s always been about him.

For you, the key to this may be that Justin isn’t really submissive in the true sense of the word. On the surface, he’s just the opposite. But like you knew before the first time you ever even joked about spanking him, he’s strong rather than dominant. He gets an immense amount of satisfaction from letting you run the show. You’ll never forget the first time that happened, how feeling the trust that he had for you made you hard. And it happened long before you ever invited him over your knee; it happened that first night.

Perhaps you spank him to force that trust to the surface, to smoke it out, to expose it to the elements. Gives you an opportunity to show him what lengths you’ll go to and how much satisfaction it gives you to protect it, to protect him—to give you a chance to experience that invincibility that only comes with being responsible for his pleasure.

And his pain.

You’ve seen that look on his face many, many times, that look of willing surrender as his sensitivity to the heat and pressure stirring underneath your hand blurs into a wicked high that happens to him, but belongs to you. And rightfully so because you’re the one that knows every inch of his body, the one that urges him across your lap, the one whose words and hands make promises they always keep.

Like tonight, when the deliberate echo of your shoes on the hardwood floors downstairs are no doubt sending shivers through him as he waits for you in your bedroom. You take your time before heading upstairs, hanging up your coat, fixing yourself a drink, enjoying the tingle of anticipation in the entire house.

*****************
You make him undress for you in the dim light of your bedroom after you’ve waited for this all day, his clothes peeling off of him effortlessly, as if they were specifically selected for this moment. And they were. You motion for him to come to you, extending your hand as he reaches the edge of the bed. He crawls into your lap, knowing what it means for him if you’re still fully clothed.

No release in sight.

The routine begins as it always does, with him curling against your chest, fiddling with your necktie, watching your hand as it moves over his body. You hold him close and listen carefully; his desperate voice going straight to your cock, “Brian, I want this,” and he covers your roaming hand in an attempt to steer it between his legs. “It’s all I’ve wanted all day.”

“All day?”

“All day.”

“Hmm.”

When you touch his dick, he lets go of your hand and you watch his small fingers unbutton your sleeve and fold the cuff back. He strokes your arm as he pushes up the crisp, white fabric; persistence always overshadowing patience when it comes to him. You bend your knees a little, tucking him closer against you, your face resting in his hair. It smells like honey and brushes your face as he lifts his, kissing your neck as your thumb skims over the head of his cock.

“You’re soaked,” you whisper and he moans in agreement, his hand sliding up the opposite side of your face, his fingers tracing the outline of your ear. His touch is a plea to let him flip over.

He moans again when he feels your hand wrap around his hip, his breath soft and warm against your neck, and the gentle tug is all he needs as incentive to turn over and show you how much he deserves this attention tonight.

And he always deserves it.

The look he gets on his face when you’re spanking him is the reward in all of this. And tonight, you’ll hold his cock firmly in your hand, in no mood to ruin your new pants. Within moments, having to hold perfectly still for you and listen to your voice will become too much for him. The sheets will bunch underneath his fingers as his eyes beg you to let him go.

But you won’t, not just yet, because that would disappoint him.

And you’d rather wear Armani-knock offs first.

The sensations of all of this—the heat, the pain, the humiliation, the affection—will swirl inside him desperate for an exit, and ultimately, roll down his face, grateful streaks streaming for the comfort of your bed, of your arms.

Everything intensifies before you let it begin to fade, your hot hand with less and less force behind it, remaining on his body for longer and longer, moving to intimate places that are anxiously waiting it. When your thumb brushes the skin of his inner thigh, he gasps your name and your eyes never leave his face. You rub him softly, his legs spreading because they were meant to.

The expression on your face will change to one of expectation, and he meters out a compliant whisper, “Spank me. Hard.” And you wait for the rest, your eyebrow having an entire conversation with his tear-soaked face, “Please.”

He’ll lie on his back on the sheets when it’s all over, his appreciation of your unwavering consistency delivered in the form of reluctant sobs as he watches you undress. He stops when you lie on top of him, your hot fingers teasing him and then finally pushing inside him as you kiss him, his hands clasped around your neck.

“You have no idea how goddamn hot you are when you get like this,” you’ll tell him in his ear, reminding him to calm down, that you love him, that you’re going to fuck the shit out of him.

He’ll clutch you until his body stops seizing, until his breathing becomes regular again, until he’s ready, “Fuck me, Brian.”

The warmth coming off his body will wrap around you like an electric blanket as you fill his ass and he’ll drown you in small declarations of love and adoration.

And satisfaction.

When this is over, the evening will wind down peacefully as he lies in your arms, his face warm against your chest. You’ll tell him about your day, about deadlines, about impossible clients, about employees that need to work smarter and not harder.

“I was going to tell you something, but I can’t remember,” he’ll mumble, his voice trailing off as he snuggles down into your pillow.

“You can tell me tomorrow,” you’ll say, “I won’t have to work so late.” You’ll feel him smiling against you and lean down kiss him goodnight.

“Mmm, I love you,” he’ll say as he settles back down. “I really, really love you.”

“Same here, Sunshine,” you’ll whisper back, twirling his hair in your fingers until he falls asleep.

But for now, you’ll come when he does, when you’ve let him, and his release will take the form of a small, blond vice enveloping you, almost crushing you with the grateful acknowledgement of what you do for him, and the never-tired admission that you’re the only one meant to take what he wants to give you.

Needs to give you.

Has to give you.

And as always, until the next occasion arises, you’ll keep it for him, priding yourself for being the sole steward of his insatiable appetite.


the end