Bound by Lust by Shanna Germain Page B

basement? You could do that, you’d said. And what about the exterior of the house? Hadn’t I wanted to repaint it? You could do that too.
    But I saw your dreams. Where you’d add a picket fence and paint it white, and then want a dog, and maybe a swing set. I was never going to be that person. It didn’t matter that you told me otherwise; said that wasn’t what you wanted. Someday, I knew, you might change your mind. Better to leave things the way they were.
    Still though, you had half of the house left to paint. And so every Friday night for the next three weeks, you arrived at my house just after 6:00, and a ritual of sorts was born. You stripped off your clothes and stood quietly while I drew the rope around your neck and tied your harness. Then your jeans went back on, and you’d paint for an hour or two, we’d have dinner, and then I’d take you upstairs to my bedroom. You didn’t go home those nights anymore—it didn’t make sense to go home when you’d be back again first thing in the morning anyway. Saturday you’d paint and I’d watch, or you’d paint and I’d work, depending on my mood.
    Saturday night we’d play, and I say play because really, it wasn’t just about spanking you anymore. I had a sizable
collection of toys, and I introduced you to the nuances of each in turn: floggers, paddles, and crops; nipple clamps; anal plugs (you were especially fond of those); and my personal favorite, a rattan cane. Each Saturday night we went a little further, a little deeper. And you opened to each experience completely, with more honesty and humility than I’ve seen in far more experienced boys. I found you indescribably beautiful.
    We didn’t get to the cane until the third Saturday night. You were bent over my desk, secured at wrist and ankle. You were making happy sounds, endorphins humming through you, your ass already rosy and hot from my flogger. I began by simply tapping you with the cane—a gentle introduction that produced only a mild sting—but definitely a new sensation after the heavier thud of the flogger.
    â€œJoshua, I’m going to give you three strokes with this cane, okay?”
    â€œMm-hmm.” You sounded dreamy and far away.
    â€œI need you to pay attention, Joshua, because this is going to feel very different than anything we’ve tried so far.”
    It was an understatement, to be sure; a hard strike with a cane felt like a knife edge of fire and lightning that blotted out every other thought and sensation, and as the initial blaze faded, an aftershock—still sharp and localized, but with a bit of dull achiness—began to sink in, as though the stripe ran clear to the bone and beyond. I knew this because I didn’t believe in using anything I hadn’t tried myself, and in my experience, there was nothing that compared to a cane.
    â€œAre you ready?”
    â€œYes, Ma’am,” you said, without any hesitancy at all.
    I laid the first stripe across the center of your ass and you screamed, trying instinctively to rear up and away from the pain. You nearly lifted the desk off the ground, but I was right
there, stroking your neck, whispering in your ear, telling you how proud I was of you, kissing your cheek and tasting the tears that fell there.
    â€œIt’s okay, baby,” I soothed. “Only two more to go.”
    â€œNo, I can’t, it’s too much….”
    â€œYes you can baby. You’re doing so well. You can do this. For me.” I stood up.
    â€œOkay, okay, okay…” It was a chant; your eyes squeezed shut, your muscles so tense they could have snapped.
    I caressed you, gentle strokes from the small of your back to the tops of your thighs, moving tenderly over the angry red stripe of the cane until I felt you relax. Then quickly, I laid the second stripe just above the first, before you could tense your muscles again. Your scream was raw,