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I waited a beat, letting the moment hang. Mikey made another little sound and wriggled his hips, like he was testing the unfamiliar sensation, then stilled — even his breath pausing in his throat. I stepped in close behind Sawyer, so our bodies nearly touched.

“Freeze,” I told him. He did, every muscle in his back going rigid, the back of his neck warm beneath his hair. With my left hand, I set two fingers on his wrist, nudging his grip until the cane sat in the right groove across his palm. He didn’t move, not even a twitch. I could feel his pulse ticking away under my fingertips, fast but steady.

“It’s wrist, not arm,” I murmured, low enough that only he could hear. “Let the tip do the work. See where you landed?”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. I let my hand linger a beat longer on his wrist, then drew a faint line above Mikey’s pale skin, just a half inch lower than the first. The spot where I wanted him to land it.

“Reset and try again,” I said, stepping back just enough to give him space but not so much he lost the sense of me nearby.

He took a breath. The second stroke came down cleaner — a bright crack, and Mikey made a soft, broken sound into the table surface that went straight through me. I turned my attention to Mikey before Sawyer could land a third. I leaned down close to his ear.

“You’re doing so well, baby,” I said, my voice low. “Such a good boy. Taking it so perfectly. Daddy’s so proud of you.”

His whole body shifted under the words. He made a wet sound.

“Again,” I told Sawyer.

The third stroke landed. Cleaner still. A neat red line across the curve of Mikey’s ass, parallel to the first, the skin between them flushing pink.

“Good,” I said to Sawyer. Then, to Mikey: “That’s it, baby. You’re taking it so beautifully. Every single stroke. Daddy’s right here.”

His shoulders dropped another inch. His breathing had gone ragged, each inhale shaking.

Sawyer was finding his rhythm. Each stroke came cleaner than the last, the cane finding its mark. I kept my hand on Mikey’s back between each one.

“Perfect, sweetheart. Such a good boy. Doing so well for your brother.”

By the eighth stroke, Mikey was flushed from his neck to the backs of his knees, trembling slightly against the table, striped pink and red across his ass in neat parallel lines. His breathing was soft.

Sawyer lowered the cane. His own breathing was uneven, his forehead damp with sweat.

“Good,” I said to him. “Set it down.”

He did. The cane went back on the table with a soft clack, and he stepped back, wiping his palm against his thigh.

I crouched beside Mikey. Got down to his eye level and cupped his face in my palm. His skin was hot, damp with sweat, and his green eyes were wet at the corners, lashes clinging together.

“Hey,” I said, quiet. “Look at me, baby.”

He did. His eyes focused on mine, blurry and huge.

“You were exceptional,” I told him. My thumb brushed the track of a tear. “Such a good boy. Extra good. Daddy is so pleased with you. So proud. You took every single stroke exactly the way you were supposed to, and you looked beautiful doing it.”

He nodded. His cheek pressed into my palm.

“Because you were so good,” I said, “you get a reward.”

His breath caught.

Chapter 7. Sullivan

“I’m going to fuck you right here. Just like this. While your brothers watch. How does that sound, princess?”

The sound he made then was desperately wanting, a whimper, and his hips shifted against the table.

I didn’t untie him or remove his chastity cage. Mikey didn’t like being unlocked — something about the vulnerability of coming undone with his wrists free made him anxious in a way that binding never did. The rope was safety, and so was his cage. So I left him tied and reached for the bottle of lube I’d set beside the water.

The cap clicked. I warmed the lube between my palms and then let my hand find him — one finger working into him while my other hand stayed flat between his shoulder blades, stroking the knobs of his spine in slow circles.