Page 13

"Thank you for helping your brother. You're a very good boy," he said.

The praise landed warm in my chest, the way it always did.

"And you can take it out on JJ during the scene," he added quietly, with that wolf smile of his.

I laughed quietly to myself so I didn't wake JJ up.

I could not wait.

Chapter 6. Sullivan

The fireplace had been burning since before dinner, and the living room held a warmth that made everything feel slower, softer. Amber light from the flames flickered across the ceiling beams and the deep cream-colored sofas we’d pushed back against the walls to clear a wide space in the center of the room. The heavy oak table that we usually used for dinner sat where it always did for scenes like this. I’d laid out the soft hemp rope on one end, the cane on the other, and a bottle of water beside my usual chair. Everything in its place.

Dinner had been simple: roast chicken, Sawyer’s mashed potatoes, green beans that Mikey had actually eaten without making a face, and the dishes were done, the kitchen quiet. Now the three of them stood in front of me in a loose semicircle, waiting. JJ in his little shorts and a thin cotton tee he’d changed into after his post-dinner shower. Mikey in soft gray sweatpants and a pink hoodie, his black hair combed neatly. Sawyer in jeans and a henley, arms already crossed over his chest, his brown eyes steady on mine.

“Training scene tonight,” I said. “Impact work. Cane. I’m going to demonstrate proper technique on JJ while Sawyer watches, and then Sawyer will practice on Mikey under my direction. Clear?”

JJ’s shirt was over his head before I’d finished the sentence. He tossed it toward the sofa, missed by a foot, and was already moving toward the table, excited. No hesitation, no questions, just that eager, hungry forward momentum. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.

Sawyer didn’t move. He stood with his arms crossed, his jaw set, his weight shifted slightly onto his back foot. His eyes tracked from the cane to JJ’s bare back to my face.

Mikey, by contrast, took one small step toward the table and then stopped. He straightened the collar of his hoodie. Smoothed his hair with one hand, even though it was already perfectly neat. Adjusted the drawstring of his sweatpants. A full ten seconds of very deliberate composure, his green eyes fixed on a point somewhere above my left shoulder.

I reached for him. One hand on his cheek, thumb brushing the curve of his jaw, and watched his eyes snap to mine.

“Come here, baby boy,” I said, quiet. “Daddy’s got you. You’re going to do so well.”

He leaned into my touch. I could see how nervous he was. He was a sensitive baby, and the cane was unforgiving. But I knew he was also a huge masochist. I kissed his forehead and felt him lean into it even more.

“That’s it. Such a good princess. Go on now.”

He went. Not fast, not the way JJ had gone, but he went.

I had them strip from the waist down first, then bound them side by side at the table. JJ went down flat against the wood, cheek pressed to the surface, his breathing already settling into that slow, even rhythm he only found when he was about to take something serious. No squirming. No commentary. Just JJ, quiet and present and waiting, his blond hair falling across his forehead, his fingers loose around the rope. It was rare to see him like that, so I had to take a second to appreciate my little boy.

Mikey was different. He bent forward with his chin up, his shoulders tight, the line of his spine holding tension. I ran my hand down his back, between his shoulder blades, and felt him shiver.

“Relax for me, sweetheart. You’re safe. Daddy’s right here.”

He nodded against the wood. His shoulders didn’t drop.

I picked up the cane. Rattan, thirty inches, flexible without being whippy. Sawyer moved to stand beside me, close enough that our shoulders nearly touched. His attention was absolute. I could feel the heat of him.

“Wrist,” I said, holding the cane at my side. “Not arm. The power comes from here—” I flexed my wrist, demonstrating the snap. “—not from your shoulder. Follow through. Let the cane do the work. You’re not hitting with your body; you’re guiding the cane to where it needs to go.”

Sawyer nodded.

“Spacing,” I continued. “Parallel lines. One stroke, pause, next stroke beside it. Not on top of it. You’re painting, not covering. And watch the body. Pay attention to the skin, but also breathing, tension, movement, everything. The person tells you more than the marks ever will. Anything unexpected, you stop and check.”

Another nod. His jaw was tight, his brown eyes fixed on the cane in my hand. Sawyer already knew his way around impact play and had good control of his body, but the cane required precision, and he was always eager for me to teach him more. I appreciated that.

I stepped behind JJ. Set my feet. Adjusted my grip.

“First stroke,” I said, for Sawyer’s benefit. “Wrist, not arm.”

The cane came down with a clean, sharp crack. JJ’s body jerked, hard, and then went perfectly still. A thin red line bloomed across the curve of his ass, exactly where I’d aimed. He didn’t make a sound. His breath caught, held for half a second, and then released in a long, controlled exhale. His fingers curled around the rope. That was all.

“Again,” I said. “Same angle, half an inch lower.”