Page 9 of Coffee and Tea

Simon, face pressed into sofa-cushions, managed to look up at him. Pale gold tumbles obscured the one visible eye. “Yes, sir. I need that, sir.”

“Why?”

“Because…I need a reminder. Balance, I think. What I need, and where I should be.”

“What you need,” Ben said, “is to be good for me. And where you should be is where I put you. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Two words; but the joy, the relief, echoed. Simon knew that Ben heard, and understood, and would give him this.

“Good,” Ben told him, “now don’t move,” and got to work playing with rope.

He didn’t make the bonds too complex—not the point, not right now, this morning—but he did want it to be tangible, a real restraint. Serious knots. Lines of sapphire crossing and linking Simon’s arms, wrists to elbows. His own skill, and Simon’s willing compliance. Artwork, made together.

Simon’s breathing changed as Ben worked: softer, slower, falling into that gilded pink-streaked submissive headspace. He was hard—Ben could feel it, matching his own—but did not move or stir, simply peaceful.

Ben touched his cheek, after. “Still good?”

Simon nodded, blissful.

“Okay. Twenty, but you don’t have to count. I will. You’ll feel it, though.”

Simon nodded again.

“Such a good boy,” Ben said, and tugged his pajama pants lower: exposing Simon’s pert ass, round and inviting. “But you’re not always, are you? Or you wouldn’t need me to scold you. To spank you until you’re all red and hot and begging…until you need to come, and you need it so bad you’ll come in your pretty pink pajama pants, won’t you? Making a mess of yourself. But you’ll do it because I want you to.”

“Yes—” Simon moved as if the response was inadvertent, innate, arms testing the ties. He didn’t want to be let go; he wanted to feel it. “Please. Sir. All of that.”

“Yes,” Ben agreed, “all of that,” and lifted his hand.

The first impact sounded harder than it was; he hadn’t wanted to start rough. The reverberations sang through them all regardless. His hand, tingling with meaning. Pink on Simon’s fair skin. Blooming heat like a vow, uniting them.

Simon sighed softly, yielding to pain and pleasure, giving himself to the feeling. His body was easy, relaxed, as he melted into that high and rainbowed space.

So Ben did it again. And again. More.

A rhythm, even. A metronome, perfect timing. Each side, the curves of Simon’s ass growing more pink, color deepening. The sound, the pattern. Ben fell into it too: the abstract radiant beauty, blue rope and rose-petal hues, the beat of his hand, the sensation of Simon’s heat and weight across his thighs. He was rock-hard, himself; but that was less important, just now.

He kept count, and increased the force at six, and at ten; at that point Simon started making small sounds, little gasps and sobs against the sofa. Ben paused, brushed hair out of his face; Simon murmured hazily, “More, please, sir…feels so good…so nice…”

“Not too hard?” Simon could always stop him; they had words, hand signals, ways to express that even if those dreamy eyes ended up nonverbal.

“No…it’s right…it’s what I need, feeling it…I’m yours and you’ll take care of me…”

“Whatever you need,” Ben promised, “always,” and got back to it. Simon began crying more at fifteen, but the good kind of crying, simply overwhelmed by emotion. Ben said quietly, “You’re right where you should be, you’re mine, it’s a reminder, if you need a spanking I’ll give it to you, and if I say you’re being good, taking it so well, I mean that. And you’ll listen to me, because that’s an order, and because you want to listen to me. My good boy.”

Harder, again; Simon’s dick, caught between them, was leaking wetness, making a mess of both their pants. But that, like the soft sobbing, was good: so much sensation that he couldn’t hold back, feeling this good.

Eighteen. He pressed Simon’s legs further apart; they fell open readily, leaving him exposed: his hole, the entrance to his body. Ben made this one harder, centered right there. Simon screamed, and actually moved, this time: writhing against him.

“One more.” Ben stroked his hip, his thigh. “Just like that one. You can take it, you’re so good, you’re almost done.”

Simon moaned, and more wetness pulsed between them, eager.

Ben smiled to himself, and brought his hand down.

Simon couldn’t seem to be still, after: shaking, squirming, whimpering, lost in stinging heat and billowing sweetness. He shuddered against Ben’s legs, hips rocking mindlessly, chasing more sensations. Ben put one hand on the back of his neck, over the collar; put the other hand on his ass, and held him down, hard. “So good. Taking everything, everything I decide you deserve…and now I think you’ve earned a reward. I think you should come just like this. With your bare ass all hot and red, my hands on you, my collar around your neck. Making a mess of your pretty pink pants. But it’s good, you’re good, because I’m telling you to make a mess of yourself, let it go, let it happen, just come for me, go on.”

Simon sobbed, anguished and enraptured, and shuddered all over, and his release rushed out fluid and sticky and warm, where his cock was trapped between his body and Ben’s thigh.

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