Page 92 of Knox's Boy

I kept spanking him until his skin was flushed to a perfect, even rose and his breath was coming in wet, shuddering pants. I knew the edge of his tolerance, and I let him walk right up to it. He writhed in my lap, his arms clutching at the leg of the chair, his toes curling under him.

"You are such a desperate little thing," I said. "You crave this, don't you?"

He nodded, face flushed and wet, his breathing ragged. "Yes, Daddy," he confessed. "God, I love it. Please…"

"Shh," I interrupted, making my strokes lighter now, more teasing than punishing. "You don't get to ask for anything yet. You're still earning it." I trailed my fingers along the crease where thigh met buttock, admiring the color, the shiver that ran up his spine at the touch.

He was hard, I could feel it pressed against my lap. He rocked slow and helpless, chasing sensation.

I gripped his hair, pulling his upper body up so his back arched, his face exposed to me. He looked ruined, beautiful, the tears bright on his cheeks.

"I think that's enough," I said, releasing him. "Stand up."

He obeyed, a little unsteady, his cock hard, the redness of his ass on full display as he stood facing me. He wiped his eyes, still breathing hard.

"Look at you," I said. "So needy you can't even wait for my permission. Is that how my sweet boy wants to behave? So eager and desperate for me?"

He shivered, but all he did was nod.

“Well, you don't get to cum today. Only good boys get to cum, and I don't think you've earned that, did you?”

“But Daddy!” he protested, shocked with the realization of his punishment. He pouted at me, bottom lip quivering, a performance for the ages. I wanted to laugh, but this was a lesson, and I intended to see it through. He stood in front of me, hands nervously rubbing the red warmth at his hips, waiting for any sign that I might change my mind.

I reached for him, pulling him into my lap. He collapsed into my arms, boneless with relief, but still rigid with need. I buried my face in his neck, inhaling the sweet scent of his shampoo, and let my hands wander down, soothing his butt with gentle strokes and small circles.

"You'll wait," I whispered. "And if you touch yourself, even a single time before I decide you can, you'll get the cane."

He whimpered at the threat, half fear, half arousal. He loved to hate the cane. I could feel the shudder pass through him.

I shifted him so that his legs draped over mine. My hand wandered down his chest, exposing his collarbones and the clavicle I knew he secretly loved to show off. I left featherlight kisses there, and he arched his neck for more. I let my hand drift lower, cupping his cock. He gasped, hips jerking up into my palm.

But I didn't give him what he wanted. I just held him still. "You don't make the rules," I reminded him. "You don't decide when."

He clawed at my chest weakly, a silent plea for more, and I relented. Barely. I flattened my palm against him, feeling thedamp patch under my hand, and pressed just hard enough to make him writhe for me. I watched his face, the way his mouth fell open in surprise with every small, calculated movement I made.

"Remember this feeling," I said, my voice strict but soft. "Remember every second of it, because the next time you doubt yourself, the next time you choose not to trust me, this is what you'll be denied."

He nodded, moaning, the sound thick and sweet.

"Good boy," I praised. I drew my hand away, leaving him breathless and trembling. “Now, come sit on the table. I'll fetch a notebook and a pen, and you'll write your affirmations down, twenty times each.”

“Lines, Daddy?!” he exclaimed, now shocked.

I looked at him sternly, arms folded. "Lines, yes. You need to internalize the lesson. It’s an efficient therapeutic tool, and besides," I could not help but let a sly smile break the facade, just for him. "You look so cute when you’re pouting."

He snorted at that but still started the pout right away again.

"And little boy," I added, lowering my voice. "You will do this with your bare bottom on the chair. I want you to feel how warm it is."

If he was about to argue, the words vanished. He sat down carefully and winced a little. I got him the pen and the notebook from my study and he began.

"Go on," I said. "Begin. Make it neat to make me proud."

He made a show of rolling his eyes, but underneath, I saw the eagerness, the thrill of being watched, monitored, controlled. He wanted to be disciplined; he wanted to be seen.

I deserve money, love, safety, and happiness.

He wrote with lips pressed in a determined line. Every few sentences, he would sneak a look at me out of the corner of his eye, and I would deliberately say nothing, simply tap my wristwatch as a reminder to focus.