Bound and Determined (38 page)

It was clear the first blow was going to be a lot harder than the ones

delivered by Owen's hand—Sterling could tell by the way Owen drew back his

arm. The slap against his already-sore behind hit with a
whoosh
, knocking

pain in and the air right out of him in a rush. The paddle, he thought dimly,

reeling. There were black spots dancing in front of his eyes, and he realized

that he'd been holding his breath until the paddle had hit him; he inhaled

sharply, oxygen filling his lungs, and his vision settled back to normal.

Owen had been waiting for him to recover, sensing that something was

wrong. Now, he went on, delivering another four blows in steady succession. It

was weird—the paddle didn't actually hurt as much as Owen's hand did, but it

knocked him for a loop every time. It was so intense, the area it covered when it

made contact so much
more
than a palm and five fingers.

It made more noise too, and that was part of it. So much so that Sterling

wondered what it would be like to do this if he couldn't hear; he'd been

spanked blindfolded, and he usually ended up closing his eyes to shut out

everything but the impact of Owen's hand anyway, but if he couldn't hear,

would that make it more intense, or less?

Something to talk to Owen about… Owen loved it when he wanted to

discuss what they did; Sterling could see him taking it all in, and if he said that

he wanted to try something, it usually showed up in a session eventually. He

never lost sight of how much of what they did was tailored around his needs; it

made his debt to Owen that much greater.

Blindfolded, earplugs—God, would Owen gag him too, rob him of that

outlet as he'd done before, leaving Sterling with his sense of touch and not

much else?

The next blow of the paddle tore a yelp out of him because it
really
bit

deep. “Focus,” Owen said, just a hint of sternness in the word. Losing himself

in the spanking was allowed; letting his thoughts get busy wasn't, and Owen

always knew the difference—God knew how, but he did.

Sterling couldn't form an apology; he was well past words, but he choked

out a contrite moan and arched up his ass to meet the next hard, punishing

slap, which made Owen chuckle and murmur “so eager” like that was news

when it wasn't.

Two more, and then Owen stopped to ask, “How many is that?”

Sterling had perfected the art of keeping track with only part of his mind.

“Fourteen.” The fifteenth was the hardest yet, hard enough to make him cry

out, and he was relieved to know that this part of it was over. Still two phases

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161

to go, with the hairbrush next, and he could imagine how that was going to

feel.

His dick could imagine it too, and it liked the idea just fine.

He craved the sharp sting of the hairbrush so much that he wriggled, just

a little bit, in Owen's lap in anticipation of the pain. The movement gave his

cock some relief in the form of shifted pressure, and he groaned deep in his

chest.

“I said you could come when this was over,” Owen reminded him. He

rubbed the smooth coolness of the back of the hairbrush over Sterling's ass

and then flipped the brush over. The bristles scored the tender skin as it was

dragged across it ruthlessly, and Sterling squirmed wildly and voiced a

protesting moan. “Not before,” Owen finished. “Lie still for me, please.”

That was difficult; Sterling wanted to move, fighting the pain even as he

welcomed it, but he tried. The first smack from the brush defeated his good

intentions. Tears of pain slipped out of his eyes, and his hands curled into tight

fists.

“It's such a concentrated pain, isn't it,” Owen mused as his hand rose and

fell. “Inflexible too; no give in it like there is in my hand or a nice, springy

paddle. Not as concentrated as a cane, of course, but I don't think you're quite

ready for that.”

Owen didn't usually talk this much, but Sterling found that listening to

him helped, even if Owen's voice was getting lost in the roar of blood in his

ears. He wanted to reach that place where it stopped hurting and each blow

was like a small, perfect climax, pleasure shaking him, rocking his world. So

close.

“Fifteen,” Owen said, matching the silent count in Sterling's head. His

hand passed over Sterling's ass, a whisper of coolness. “I think…yes, I think

that you can take another six. What would you like me to use, Sterling?” His

hand kept touching Sterling's ass as he waited for Sterling to catch his breath

enough to reply, petting it, playing with it—delicate pinches, pats that were

almost hard enough to count as a slap, sometimes the slow drag of a finger

down the crease of Sterling's ass, close to flesh that still ached, a sweet, deep

ache reminding Sterling of how good it'd felt to be filled, fucked, taken.

Sterling wanted something that would leave a mark, a mark that he could

press his fingers to over the next few days, one that would remind him that he

belonged to Owen. “The crop,” he said hoarsely. “Please.”

Owen's hand went very still. “Ah. Maybe that's not a good idea—”

“
Please
.” Sterling turned his head and tried to see Owen's face, but he

couldn't, not without moving from where Owen had put him, and he wasn't

allowed to do that. “Please, Owen. I want it. Let me get on my knees. Let me tell

you how much I want it from you.”

“It'll hurt,” Owen said, and there was something in his voice that told

Sterling how much it would hurt and how much Owen wanted to do it. It was

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hard to wrap his head around at the beginning of their relationship; the way

that for all Owen made him feel safe and protected, Owen got off on hurting

him, leaving him bruised, marked, crying. With anyone else, that would have

freaked Sterling out, but he didn't just love Owen, he trusted him. Totally. No

limits.

It was what allowed him to ask for more than he could take, made

reckless by arousal, knowing that Owen was more aware of his limits than he

was. Spanking him scarlet and hot turned Owen on, but controlling Sterling,

reining him in, curbing his impulses, did even more for him, and Sterling knew

that.

This, though, this he wanted. The crop. Six strokes. Could he take six cuts

on an ass that was already singing, screaming with pain? Maybe not. But he

could beg for them, knowing that Owen would only administer enough to bring

him to a blissful, messy, ecstatic climax.

“Please,” he said, putting everything he was feeling into the word. “Owen, I

can take it. I
want
it. I need it.” He shuddered, a full body shudder that went

from his head all the way down to his toes and made his cock quiver.

For a moment, Owen was silent, and Sterling was sure a refusal was

coming. But then Owen said, “Six strokes. Remember your safe words, and use

them if it's too much. Promise me.”

“I promise,” Sterling gasped. Right then, he wanted the intensity, the

newness of it, more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life—he'd have

promised anything, no matter how rashly, so he didn't even need to think

about it. It wasn't like he intended to use either safe word,
ever.

He could feel Owen reaching to the bed, and his whole body tensed up

with the knowledge of what was coming.

Except for the part where he had no fucking idea.

“One,” Owen said—it was the first time he'd counted aloud, which Sterling

took as a warning—and brought the crop down across Sterling's ass.

To say that he screamed wouldn't have been an exaggeration. It hurt more

than he'd imagined, the thin fiberglass cutting deep and setting the world

aflame. His scream died out when he ran out of air, and he inhaled so fast his

lungs and stomach ached with it.

He heard Owen breathe in sharply and felt him react to the stroke of the

crop, his muscles locking tight, as if it'd been Owen's ass set alight, Owen's

body split apart, sliced open. There wouldn't be any blood. He'd told Owen that,

hadn't he, once, a long time ago? No blood. He didn't want to bleed—oh, God,

was he bleeding, could he hurt this much and not be bleeding?

The pain possessed him, took him over. Too much of it for him to handle,

for the very first time. He needed it to get to where he wanted to go, but this

was pushing him past that point to somewhere new and he wasn't sure—

“Two,” Owen said without a trace of indecision in his voice.

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163

The crop sliced through the air and came down hard, and Sterling

screamed again. He didn't try to hold back, because that would take too much

effort and he knew it wouldn't be successful no matter how hard he tried. As

the pain flew through him, he let it take him, let it shove him down into his

body, walling out everything else until he was the only thing that existed, him

in his body and nothing else.

He was safe there.

Three and four didn't make him scream because he was past screaming,

although his face was hot and wet with tears and his hips were working,

pushing his cock against nothing but the air that just might be enough to

make him come. So close, he was so close…

For just a second, the sound of Owen's voice saying, “Five,” thrust him out

of it, took him back into the real world that he'd been trying so hard to hide

from, and when the blow struck it wasn't transcending or beautiful and it

didn't make him come, it just
hurt
like fuck, and Sterling cried out.

“No,” he choked. “No, Owen—inf-field.”

Owen stopped, and one hand stroked Sterling's hair, lifting it away from

his sweaty face. “Good boy. I'm proud of you.”

Proud? Why would Owen be—

“Knowing your limits is very important,” Owen went on. “There's no shame

in needing a break, and none in my decision that this is enough for one night.”

Startled even at the same time he was incredibly relieved, Sterling lifted

his head, trying to see Owen's expression. “No, it's—”

“It's not your call,” Owen said. “It's mine. Onto your knees, please.”

His ass burning, Sterling obeyed, sliding down off Owen's lap and onto the

floor, where Owen joined him a few seconds later.

It felt weird to have Owen on the floor with him. He put an arm around

Sterling's shoulders and reached back to snag something from the bed. Sterling

tensed, even though he knew that Owen wouldn't be reaching for anything like

the paddle.

A pillow. Soft and white, the cover cool against Sterling's ass as Owen

tucked it between his ass and his heels.

“If you really want that final stroke,” Owen said, his arm supporting

Sterling, “you can take it this way, from my hand.”

Before Sterling could form a thought, let alone words, Owen's hand closed

around his erection, wilted by what he'd endured, half-hard, no more, and

began to move, gently, firmly coaxing him back to the place where everything—

kneeling, hurting, Owen—fit perfectly, snugly together.

He said Owen's name, loving the way it shaped his mouth, the sound of it

in the air. Said it again and got Owen's lips on his, a kiss that felt as good as

Owen's hand.

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“Keep your hands where they are,” Owen murmured, and for some reason

that casual command sent Sterling over. Sterling cried out, Owen's arm

cradling him as his hand tightened, sped up, and then there was nothing but a

spark-filled darkness, and his body, for a space of time, belonged not to him

but his climax, and to Owen, always Owen.

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165

Chapter Fourteen

The day after Christmas, Owen woke to the muffled half sound of heavy

snow falling. Several inches were already piled up on the outside of the

windowsill, which meant there was far more on the ground. At least he didn't

have much planned for the day, he thought as he turned over and put an arm

around Sterling.

“Mmm. What?” Sterling muttered.

“Nothing,” Owen said quietly. “Go back to sleep. The blizzard will still be

there later.”

“Blizzard?” Sterling yawned and blinked. “Seriously?”

“I don't know, maybe. A lot of snow, anyway.”

Sterling sat up, then winced and rolled onto his side instead. “We should

bake cookies. And make a snowman.”

“Allow me to introduce you to one of the joys of home ownership in the

town,” Owen said dryly. “Namely, snow shoveling.”