Page 47 of These Hallowed Bones
He'd nodded seriously, accepting this assignment with the same dedication he brought to all aspects of our work. "I won't touch myself," he'd promised. "Not even when I'm alone."
Now, fourteen days into his denial, the strain was beginning to show. As I watched, his hand strayed from the canvas, pressing briefly against the front of his pants. He paused, then allowed his palm to linger, applying pressure.
His breathing changed, becoming shallow and rapid. The specialized brush lay forgotten on the worktable as both hands moved to his belt. The soft sound of his zipper descending followed, but I waited until his hand started moving to interrupt.
"Micah." My voice cut through the studio like a blade.
He froze, face draining of color. Slowly, he turned to face me, eyes wide with fear and embarrassment. His maimed hand clutched reflexively for the moth toy, drawing it against his chest where it glowed brighter in response to his distress.
"Daddy, I—" he began, voice breaking.
I raised my hand, silencing him. I entered the studio, closing the door behind me carefully. "You made a promise. You gave your word regarding your contribution to our work."
He swallowed, hands dropping to his sides, zipper still partially open. "I'm sorry. I didn't—I wouldn't have—"
"But you were about to," I interrupted, disappointment evident in my tone. "Fourteen days of control, undone for a flicker of relief."
His cheeks flushed, but his arousal didn’t fade. Interesting.
"What happens when agreements are broken, Micah?" I asked quietly, standing before him now.
His eyes lowered, unable to meet my gaze. "Correction is required."
"Look at me when you answer," I commanded.
His gaze lifted immediately. "Correction is required, Daddy."
"Yes, it is." I sat on the sturdy wooden chair in the corner of the studio. "Remove your belt and bring it to me."
He hesitated only momentarily before complying, hands visibly trembling as he slid the leather from its loops. The stump of his little finger looked raw against the dark leather as he gripped it. He approached me slowly, holding the belt out like an offering.
I took it from him, testing its weight against my palm. "Pants down. Over my knee."
The flush deepened across his face, but he obeyed without question. First, he carefully placed the moth on a nearby shelf, positioning it so its glowing eyes faced him. A silent witness to his correction. Then, he lowered his pants and underwearbefore carefully positioning himself across my lap. His erection pressed against my thigh, his arousal undiminished despite his impending punishment.
"Ten strokes," I announced. "You will count each one and thank me afterward. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Daddy," he replied, voice already taking on that particular quality of submission.
I doubled the belt, gripping the buckle end securely. The first stroke landed firmly across both cheeks, leaving an even stripe of pink against his pale skin.
He jerked slightly but maintained position. "One. Thank you, Daddy."
The second landed slightly below the first. "Two. Thank you, Daddy."
By the sixth stroke, tears had begun to flow, but his position remained perfect, accepting each impact as he surrendered more deeply. "Six. Thank you for correcting me, Daddy."
The final strokes intensified deliberately, ensuring the lesson would create a lasting impression. When the tenth landed, his entire body trembled.
"Ten," he gasped through tears. "Thank you, Daddy. I'm sorry I broke my promise."
I allowed my hand to rest on the hot pink stripes across his backside, gently stroking the raised welts. "What have you learned, Micah?"
"That my body belongs to our work now," he answered, his voice steadier. "That my pleasure isn't my own to take."
"Good boy," I praised, helping him to stand. His erection remained undeterred by the punishment.
I studied him. The punishment had served its purpose. Now came the restoration, the balance necessary for complete devotion.
