Page 125 of Redline Baby

“And who keeps choosing this?”

The answer catches somewhere deeper than I expect.

“I do, Daddy.”

“That’s right.”

His hand keeps moving, firm enough now that I’m starting to whine.\

“Ouch, ouch, ouch.”

“You’re all right.”

“I know.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No.”

“Then what are all these complaints about?”

“I contain multitudes,” I say, using his unofficial, silly motto.

Soren laughs.

The idea of being spanked whether I’ve been good or not is absurdly hot, but there is something else beneath it too. I’ve spent so much of my life auditioning. Be entertaining enough. Easy enough. Needy enough to be worth helping but not so needy that helping becomes exhausting. Sorry enough after I fuck up. Good enough when I don’t. There was always some condition. Some reason I had to provide for why someone should keep paying attention.

And here is Soren, spanking me on an entirely ordinary afternoon after a week in which I have done absolutely nothing wrong. Not because I earned it. Not because I failed. Because we like this. Because it belongs to us. Because he wants me. This is mine without an audition.

“You’re doing that thing,” Soren says, his palm landing again without breaking rhythm.

“What thing?”

“Going quiet because you’re thinking too hard.”

“I can’t help it. You started a philosophical crisis with your hand.”

“Mm. My apologies.”

Another slap.

I jerk.

“I’m going to spank the crisis out of you.”

I laugh into the cushion.

“That’s not evidence-based therapy.”

“Good thing I’m a mechanic.”

His palm lands again.

And again.

Eventually, thinking becomes difficult anyway.

I close my eyes and let myself feel it. The warmth spreading over my backside. The steady rhythm. His hand at my back whenever I move too much. The cage holding me in that constant frustrating boundary while my body grows increasingly interested in everything Daddy is doing.