“Are you sure you don’t want a bite, Master?”
I’m still not thrilled that Dane insists on calling me that everywhere we go, but if it has him practically sitting on my lap and close-talking, how can I complain?
“Yes, Dane, I’m quite sure those pancakes are going to look a hell of a lot better on your ass than they would on mine.”
Dane grins and shakes his head, shoveling in the heap of blueberry pancakes dripping with syrup. “Firsht of all,” he slurs, then stops to giggle when a sizable chunk of food flies out of his mouth. “Oh, classy!”
He swipes the evidence off the table, dabs his mouth with his napkin, and takes a long swallow of ice water before speaking again. “As I was saying before I so rudely interrupted myself, I’ll have these pancakes off my ass long before they have a chance to get too comfortable. And secondly, Master, if you don’t mind my saying so . . .” He pauses again and waits for my eyebrow lift for confirmation that I can’t wait to hear where he’s going with this. “You’re looking even finer than you were a month ago when I met you.”
“Hunh! Even finer, eh? Well, now.” I fool neither of us by sipping at my coffee. My smile oozes out on both sides of the mug. Time for a masterful shift in conversation. “You wouldn’t be trying to butter me up so I’ll go easy on you, would you now, Dane?”
And kick-ball-change. Happy-pancake face gives way to I’m-really-about-to-get-that-spanking face. “No, Master. Never!”
“Hmm, I’m not sure I believe you.” I take advantage of Dane’s proximity and drop one hand to his knee. “Are you nice and hard for me, Dane?”
He freezes, fork halfway buried in the pancake stack. “Of course, Master.”
“That’s a good boy. You can eat. Don’t let me stop you.”
Slightly suspicious, he nevertheless goes back to carving his next bite and delivering it to his mouth.
“But while you do, I want you to think about what’s going to happen when we get back to the hotel.”
Dane lets out a whimper and shifts in his seat. My hand tightens and moves up his thigh, clamping him in place. His eyes lock on mine.
He backs the fork out of his mouth and works his jaw deliberately, as if he can’t quite manage the task without conscious effort. The food travels down his throat in one visible lump.
“Better take some water, boy.”
His movements are robotic: a stiff-armed reach for his glass, carefully metered pulls, strained swallows, and gingerly replaced glass. I shift my gaze to his plate, and he obeys my silent command, raising his fork once more. He watches me watching him, chewing and swallowing cautiously, a musical chairs player wary of the next time the music will stop.
“You know, Dane, there are a whole host of ways to do a spanking.” Finding his mouth dry, Dane takes a large gulp of water. “For example, that man in the picture was using a switch. Would you like that, Dane, or would you prefer some other implement?”
“Something else,” he says, with just enough urgency that I know he has something very specific in mind.
“Oh yes? What, then, boy? What would you like me to use on you?”
Dane’s eyes shift to the hand holding my coffee mug. “I don’t know,” he answers, taking an anxious sip of water.
“No matter. I brought lots of new toys from my dungeon. I’ll choose something special for you. I’ve been wanting to try this new leather whisk I got last—”
Finally, it’s all too much for him, and he erupts. “Your hands, please.”
“Oh, okay, then.” We both pretend this came as a huge shock to me. “My hands it is. I love a good open-handed spanking! Giving one, that is.”
Dane can’t quite get inside my joke with me; instead, he shoots me a smoldery grimace. Talk about being on the hot seat.
“All right, that’s settled. Now . . .” I start, catching Dane’s discomfort as I continue pushing, “I have to tell you that boy in the picture wearing his pants or knickers or whatever they were? That is highly unusual, but if that’s what you really want, Dane, we can do that. After all, this was your request.”
Don’t remind me, his chagrined frown says loud and clear.
“I don’t know,” he says again before shoving a forkful of pancakes in as cover.
He knows. He’s just not ready to ask me to take down his pants. But he will be soon. “Well, then, let’s weigh the pros and cons.”
I swear he gives me an “Are you fucking kidding me?” glare before rearranging his features.
“You keep your jeans on. You can still feel the effects of the spanking; it will be muffled and not as crisp, more of a dull ache after a while than a clear sting. You’ll probably turn a more consistent shade of pink than if you just had patches and handprints on your ass.”
At this juncture, Dane sets down his fork and grabs his water again as if it’s a bottle of whiskey. I continue merrily with my compare-and-contrast scenario.
“Of course, there is one obvious disadvantage to keeping your clothes on—you’ll have your clothes on! I won’t be able to do all those nice, fun things I like to do in between swats: caressing your cheeks, playing with your hole, teasing your cock and balls . . . And worst of all, you might come in your pants!” I deliver this last bit with a horrified scowl.
Poor Dane. He wants to murder me right now, but he has to play along and voice his choices or be stuck with a fate he doesn’t want. “It’s a tough decision, Dane. Take your time with it.”
He screws up his courage and starts to answer, “Master, I—”
“Oh, wait a second! I have a perfect compromise.”
Dane blows out all the air he’d been holding in and looks at me with an exasperated expression.
“What? I’m just trying to help. Don’t you want to hear it?”
He finally does roll his eyes and allows himself a tiny grin. “Sure.”
I shift in my seat so we’re more face-to-face, my hand still clamped tightly over his thigh, within striking distance of the thick bulge between his legs. “It’s the best of both worlds, really. You start out in a pair of underpants—ideally a pair of thin white briefs, nothing too fancy—and once you’re warmed up, we just get those right out of the way so there’s nothing between your skin and my hand. What do you think?”
What I think he’s thinking about is a whole lot of tighty whitie spanking fantasy reels, not one of which will prepare him for the actual experience he’s about to have. He’s speechless again, actually mute.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. You don’t have to say anything. Just nod if you think that’s the best idea ever.”
Dane blushes, drops his eyes, and nods more than once.
“What a good boy you are. Now, look, you’re almost through it. There’s really only one more question I need to ask. Would you prefer to be bent over a piece of furniture, or maybe propped up in that beautiful picture window in our room . . . or do you want to be turned over my knee?”
With each of my suggestions, Dane sinks further. He lifts his empty water glass, and I slide him mine. He can’t focus on one spot, can’t even decide where he wants to look, let alone how to take his spanking. He gives me a resigned shrug and a sad shake of his head. I reach over and place my hand over his, giving him a comforting squeeze.
“Tell you what, Dane. You’ve already had your spin on Master’s lap; let’s try something different this time.”
He nods, pleased not to have to decide.
“Okay, good. If we were going to be in my dungeon, the choice would be easy—whipping bench all the way. It’s sturdy, adjustable, and the leather feels great on your cock. Since we don’t have that luxury, I say let’s stand you up in the window and let all of Manhattan see what a dirty boy you are.”
Dane levels me with a murderous look, not because he doesn’t want exactly this but because he does. “Dane, if that doesn’t sound like the perfect way to spend the next hour of your life, we could still swing by the MoMA.”
Your bluff has been called. Now, tell me how much you want this, and I will get you back to the room so fast, your head will spin.
He finishes my water and blinks those long, lush lashes in slow motion while he musters the strength to ask for what we both know he wants. “That sounds good, Master.”
I give him my best “attaboy!” smile and move my hand from his thigh to the party happening inside his pants, giving him a one-two with my palm that makes his eyes roll back in his head. “I really didn’t think this was for the art museum.”
I toss some bills on top of our check; I think I gave the waiter a forty percent tip, but there’s no way we’re sticking around for change. “Let’s go.”
Dane doesn’t mess around once I stand up, and he’s out the door before I am. Our matched stride has all the urgency of that first, hurried dash back to the hotel, both of us choosing silence and our own fantasies over conversation. I have a clear treasure map now. This is Dane’s gig, his all-request morning, but that doesn’t mean Master won’t improvise here and there.
To save time, I bark out instructions as soon as we’re out of the elevator—go to the bathroom, clean up, strip down and put on a pair of white briefs. When he meets me at the window, his cock is a thick, flesh-colored rod straining at the stretchy white fabric and pointing toward his right shoulder.
I’ve taken off my shirt and placed a bath towel under his feet. I expect this to get messy. I beckon him closer and show him where I want his palms on the window. I’ve got his back at about a forty-five degree angle, something nice and comfortable to start him off. At the peak of this scene, I’ll move him to ninety, get his back flat so he can stick his ass straight out. He’ll barely feel the stretch, God bless that dancer’s flexibility.
Running my hands down his back and along his sides, I calm him with soothing words, reminding him we’re here because he wants this, that safe words apply, that he’s a good boy. He takes the first blows well, not moving his spread feet from their place on the towel.
My back to the window, I anchor him against my hip, delivering the blows for maximum effect and minimum damage. Each time, my hand snaps right back from the tight mounds of his perfectly toned bottom. There isn’t one thing extra or out of place on his body, certainly not on his ass. Dane moans softly with the last set, and a quick peek at his briefs tells me he’s dripping with pre-cum and ready to be naked. God knows, I’m ready.
I walk him closer to the window so his hands can slide lower. “Time to show the Big Apple what happens to boys who roll their eyes at their Master.” I tug down his briefs, letting them sit just below his balls. Dane moans as I cup his sac and run my palm up and down his slick shaft. It would take so little to get him off right now. “Ready, Dane?”
He tightens his stance and clenches just before I strike several blows on each side. With each stroke, he lets out a sexy little grunt, his beautiful cock bouncing along. I use the break between sets to open his cheeks and run my fingertip around his hole. “Ask me to spank you, Dane.”
He groans, lowering his head toward the floor. “Please spank me, Master.” This round is more intense—harder, longer, more repetitions on one side before switching. Dane’s long “Ahhhs” are slightly more pained than aroused, but I’m going to fix that right now. This isn’t a punishment, despite my taunting words.
Reaching through his open legs from behind, I grasp Dane’s cock and guide it between his legs and over the band of underwear , which I now raise to keep him from slipping back through. I lube up my hands where he can see. “Ask me to masturbate you, Dane.”
Dane whimpers. “Please masturbate me, Master.”
He groans and pushes his ass out when I start working his balls and shaft.
“I bet this feels good, doesn’t it, boy?”
“Oh god, yes, Master!” he croaks.
“Yeah, you like that. I remember. Tell me how much you like this, boy.”
“So much, Master.”
“Mmhmm.” I keep up the unrelenting pressure on his cock while I press a finger inside his hole.
“Nnnggh, ahhhh, ohgod, yes!”
I circle my palm on his sensitive tip, work him right to the brink, then gently release him just before he explodes. He squirms and paws the ground like a race horse straining at the gate, all the more fun for me now that I get to watch his heavy cock bob and sway.
“Let’s not be a slut, now. You asked your Master for a spanking, and that’s why we’re here, remember?”
He puffs out a series of shallow breaths and steadies himself. “Yes, Master. Please spank me some more.”
“Good, good boy. Now, enjoy these; they’re going to be your last. Here we go.” Careful not to get him too red on either side, I let loose one last round of carefully placed strokes, steadying him when he bobbles and dips. He’s tight as steel cable by the time I’ve landed the final blows, and I go right for his cock while his ass is still on fire.
“Ask me to make you come, Dane.”
“Please, Master, make me come.”
“Yes, my dirty, dirty boy. Show all those people down there how much you enjoyed your spanking.”
He moans louder than I’ve heard him yet—Does my boy have a wee exhibitionist fetish, too?
His shoulders strain with the effort of holding himself at the awkward angle, but he’s not going to last long. The sloshing and moaning and the feel of his thick cock in my hands are turning my jeans into a giant Hugo Boss cock cage, and I’m eager to get the fuck out of them and into Dane’s mouth.
“Ask me if you can suck my cock, boy.”
“Oh, Master, please may I suck your cock?”
“As soon as you come . . .”
“Please, please, please . . .” his frantic begging trails off. Everything is suspended in time and space for a fraction of a second, and Dane cries out with the wild abandon of his exhausting climax.
Dane drops his hands to the floor and walks them into his body, pushing his hips toward the ceiling and giving his quads a luxurious stretch that makes it very tempting to step in behind him and pound him to oblivion. Before the idea can even take root, the boy sinks to his knees and opens my pants. I find my home in his warm mouth and give myself over to his loving care.
After he brings me off and licks me clean, he takes my hands from his head and presses my palms to his lips. “Thank you, Master.”
“You’re welcome, sweet boy. Anytime.”
Dane sits back on his heels, his belly slick with cum and his briefs still taut between his thighs. “Not too soon, I think,” he says with his trademark grin.
“Go get a shower and I’ll put some cream on you. It’s not bad, but I don’t want the other kids making fun of you in the locker room.” I pull him up so he’s standing beside me.
“I’m fine. No costume changes today. We’re just rehearsing the songs . . . and the kisses,” he adds with a grimace.
“C’mere, Dane. Let me fix one in your brain to sustain you through your horror.”
When his lips meet mine, we’re both laughing.
That was filthy. You're welcome. :)