Page 68 of Slick Trip

He shivered.

“If you let go of the desk, I’ll start over, got it?”

He gave a tiny nod.

I caressed his bare ass, warming him up. Then I lifted his chin, making him look at me.

“Color?”

There was no hesitation on his face. “Green.”

Smack.

The sound echoed in the quiet room.

“Ouch!” He sounded equally indignant and delighted, his knuckles white from how hard he was gripping the desk. “That hurt!”

“Good. Count.”

“O-one.”

Smack.

“Fuck! Two.”

“I told you there’d be consequences,” I said, my voice steady. “Didn’t I?”

“Yes,” he whispered, his throat flushed.

“And you said you wanted to enjoy the journey.”

Smack.

“You enjoying it now?”

“Yes,” he moaned, his back arching into the sting. “I mean—three.” A tear rolled down his cheek. I reached out and wiped it away with my thumb. The rhythmic thud of my palm against his flushed skin and him gasping the numbers were the only sounds in the room. I let each slap land harder than the previous one.

His earlier attitude was completely gone.

“Jon,” he breathed.

“I know,” I said quietly.

Smack.

“Se–seven . . . it hurts.”

I paused to massage the red spots, my palm hot against his skin. “Will you listen to me next time?”

“No.”

Smack.

By the thirteenth slap, he finally broke down.

“I’m sorry!” He was crying in earnest. “I will—will listen to you.”

Slick ran down his thighs, and the air was heavy with the scent of his submission. He was still bent over the desk, breathing unevenly, fingers gripping the edge.