Page 33 of His Holy Chaos

"Hey. Hey. It's okay. You're okay. We're good here," I tell him, looking into his eyes. "I'm very glad - honored, even - that you decided to share that with me. We can even just talk today, if you prefer."

"God, no," he says, and the old bratty Jude is back, laughing. "I just want to get started."

"I know you do," I say, chuckling. "I heard you. I won't say anything of the sort, and we can talk more about your last dynamic later. Pet names?"

"Hm… I don't know, I like all sorts. Puppy, pet, boy, little boy, brat… even slut. I guess I'm not a kitten, but if you like it, sure, why not? Nothing I dislike too much. The classics are classics for a reason. What about you? What do I need to know? Shoot."

"You really are a little slut, aren't you?" I say. He beams, finding it funny. "I don't like being made fun of in a way that's meant to actually wound. Genuine cruelty disguised as play. That upsets me. I'm comfortable with the bratting you've been doing so far. It's silly and fun, and I enjoy it. You can call me Daddy. You seem comfortable with that. Alternatively, you could call me Master. I don't do Sir. It feels like a bank transaction."

"Noted, Daddy," he says and smiles at me. "So, are we doing this or not?"

"Are you trying to tell me what to do, brat?" I say, using my Daddy voice. He grins again, obviously loving every second. It warms my heart.

"Maybe I am," he says, and there it is, that defiant little tilt of his chin, the way his eyes flash with something between challenge and surrender.

I don't give him another second to brat his way out of what's coming.

"Stand up," I tell him. My voice drops low, and I watch the shift happen in real time: the way his pupils dilate, the way his breath catches, the way his shoulders soften even as the rest of him tenses. He obeys, rising from the bed, standing in front of me with his hands at his sides.

I take my time. I let him feel the weight of my gaze, let the silence stretch until it becomes its own kind of discipline. Then I reach forward and hook my fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants.

"These are coming off," I say. It's not a question.

He swallows. I see the bob of his throat, the slight tremor in his lower lip, but he doesn't protest. He just nods, and I tug the sweatpants down past his hips, down his thighs, letting them pool at his ankles. He's wearing boxer briefs, dark gray, fitted, clinging to the curve of him.

"Those too," I say.

His breath hitches audibly this time, and a flush crawls up his neck, blooming across his cheeks. But he reaches down and pushes them off, stepping out of the fabric at his feet, standing bare from the waist down. His t-shirt hangs just past his hips, barely covering anything. He's already hard. He looks vulnerable and gorgeous and absolutely wrecked, and I haven't even touched him yet.

"Over my lap," I say, and I pat my thigh.

He moves quickly, too quickly, almost tripping over his own discarded clothes in his eagerness. I catch his arm to steady him, guiding him down across my knees, adjusting him so his weight is balanced, his hips elevated just enough over my right thigh. His palms press flat against the floor on one side, his toes barely touching on the other. I feel the warmth of him against my legs, the rapid flutter of his heartbeat reverberating through his entire body.

I push the hem of his t-shirt up to the small of his back, baring him completely. The skin there is smooth and pale and delicious. I rest my hand on the curve of his ass. Just resting it there, letting him feel the size of my palm, the heat of it, the promise.

He shivers.

"Color?" I ask.

"Green," he says immediately. His voice is slightly muffled against the mattress, but the enthusiasm is unmistakable. "So green. The greenest green that ever…"

The first smack cuts him off mid-sentence. It's not gentle, but it's not my hardest either. A firm, open-palmed strike across the center of his right cheek. He gasps, his whole body jolting forward across my lap.

I don't pause. I don't count. I don't give him a number to anticipate or a rhythm to predict. I just spank him.

My hand falls again, this time on the left side, then back to the right, then lower, catching the sensitive crease where his ass meets his thighs. He yelps at that one, his legs kicking involuntarily, and I press my left forearm firmly across the small of his back, holding him in place.

"Stay," I say, and he stills, though his fingers curl against the carpet. "Good boy."

I keep going. The sound fills the room. His skin blooms pink under my hand, then deeper, a warm rosy flush spreading across both cheeks. I can feel the heat radiating off him with each strike, can feel the way his muscles clench and release, clench and release. He's vocal, I learn that quickly. Little gasps and whimpers and sharp exhales, punctuated by the occasional groan. He squirms across my lap, his hips shifting, and I adjust my hold on him, keeping him secure.

"You've been asking for this," I say, my voice low and steady. "Haven't you, brat?"

"Yes," he breathes. "Yes, Daddy."

I spank him harder, with enough force that each strike lands with real weight behind it. He cries out, his back arching, his fingers scrabbling at the carpet. I can see the muscles in his thighs trembling, can feel how his breathing has gone ragged and uneven against my legs. And there's no ignoring how he's grinding against my thigh, so worked up, leaking. I love it and the effect it has on me.

His skin turns from pink to a deep, angry rose. I vary my strikes. Sometimes a rapid flurry of lighter smacks that make him squirm and whine, sometimes a single deliberate blow that makes him cry out and go rigid. I pay attention to every reaction, every flinch, every shift of his hips. He starts to break somewhere around what must be the tenth minute. Not in a bad way. In the way that good subs break when the endorphins flood their system and the walls they've built start to crumble. His squirming slows. His whimpers soften into something more surrendered, more open. His body goes heavy across my lap, his muscles releasing their tension one by one until he's practically melting over my thighs.