Page 124 of Redline Baby

“You don’t have to earn this by misbehaving, Kit. If you want it to be something we do because it belongs to our dynamic, then that’s what it can be.”

Something in my chest goes embarrassingly soft. He pats his thigh.

“Do you want that?”

I should probably make him work harder for it. Instead: “Yes, Daddy.”

His expression warms. My cock is already trying to expand against the cage, betraying every protest I’m still technically entitled to make.

“I followed every rule this week,” I complain, already moving toward him. “Phone charged. Therapy. Canyon rides. Check-ins. I have been fucking impeccable.”

“I know.”

“That should count for something.”

“It does.”

“What?”

His eyes travel over me.

“Daddy deciding his good boy deserves some attention.”

Oh, fuck him.

I make the last few feet to the couch with as much dignity as possible, which is not much considering I’m hard inside a cage and walking directly toward the lap I’ve been loudly objecting to for the past two minutes.

He takes my wrist gently, guiding me closer, and the moment his hand closes around it, most of the performative fight drains out of me anyway. My body knows this place now. Knows him. Knows what happens when I stop trying to make everything into an argument and let myself have what I already said I wanted.

I lower myself over his lap.

Soren’s hand settles at the small of my back, familiar and grounding, and then moves lower, caressing me through my sweatpants.

“I really didn’t do anything wrong,” I say into the couch cushion, still determined to achieve the last word somehow.

“I know. I told you that already.”

He lowers my sweatpants and boxers, leaving me bare over his lap.

“This is because Daddy wants to spank you,” he says. “And my boy just told me he wants a weekly maintenance spanking.”

My face gets hot.

His palm lands. The first slap is warm and open-handed, more introduction than actual pain, but it still knocks whatever smart response I had assembled directly out of my head. A tiny, humiliating sound escapes me. Soren’s hand comes down again. Then again.

He doesn’t hit hard. Not like punishment. The rhythm is steady, almost soothing, each slap building warmth instead of sharpness. Soon there is a pleasant sting spread across my backside and I’m shifting against his lap, panting more from arousal than pain.

“Who do you belong to?” he asks.

“You, Daddy.”

Another slap.

“Who asked Daddy to hold the structure?”

“Me.”

His palm lands again.