When we got home, he stayed in the kitchen with me as I put the groceries away. We chatted about movies and planned dinners for the rest of the week—simple, everyday things.
Afterward, Aidan invited me into his office, where he sat working at his computer while I lay on the rug by his feet and did my homework. When I was done, we ended up in the living room, my head in his lap and his hand in my hair as we watched a movie.
The credits were rolling when he said, “Go upstairs, take off your clothes, then kneel by the chair and wait for me.”
Oh God. My punishment. After the day we had, I’d forgotten about it…or hoped he’d changed his mind. The instinct to argue was there, but I didn’t. I stood and said, “Yes, Sir,” before going upstairs, stripping, and waiting by the chair he now kept in my room for when he spanked me. It hadn’t happened a lot, but yeah, I wasn’t perfect. There was a time when I’d thought something like this couldn’t be a punishment, but it was, because it came from disappointing him. There was nothing worse than that.
My heart swooped, then thudded when Aidan came into the room with a brush in hand. He had never spanked me with anything other than his hand before, and I was filled with both curiosity and fear at the thought of it.
“I was upset with you before we left, for the way you spoke to me.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“But you also greatly pleased me after that—the shopping and your hard work at school—so I’m going to give you a choice. I can spank you with my hand, as I always do, but you won’t get to come. Or I can spank you with the brush, which will hurt much more. You can’t come while I’m spanking you, but I’ll allow you to come afterward.”
“The brush!” rushed out of my mouth before I could even think about it.
Aidan grinned. “How did I know you would choose that? Go to the bed. I’ve changed my mind about where we’re doing this.”
I crawled to the bed. I knew it pleased him, and I loved being at his feet. The carpet upstairs made that possible; he never allowed me to crawl on the harder floors downstairs.
Aidan sat on the bed and patted his lap. I lay across him and felt his erection, which made me shake. He shushed me and rubbed his hand over my bare ass. God, I loved it when he touched me this way, when he gave me the security of his touch. I wished he would slip his fingers between my cheeks and tease my hole before fucking me with them…and then I wanted him to hold me down and force his cock into me. I wanted to be fucked by Aidan so badly; not by the dildo I used when he allowed it, but by him.
I rutted against him, and a sharp, stinging slap came down on my left cheek. “Be good. Don’t make me take away your reward already.”
“Yes, Aidan. I’m sorry, Sir. I’ll be good.”
“I know you will. Now be as still as possible.”
Another smack of the brush hit down on my other cheek, then the first again. The pain was more intense and sharp than that of his hand, but I knew he was going easy on me, I knew it would get worse.
He hit me in that pattern I knew was to protect me. Aidan would always keep me safe. The burn traveled around my ass, biting worse with each blow. It started out snappy and became severe. I did my best to be still. My cock was hard, and tears poured down my face. I was crying loudly, my sounds mixing with the smack of the brush against my skin.
“I’m sorry I was bad. I’ll be good for you! Always want to be good for you!” I cried harder, and he spanked harder.
“You can do this, Finley. Take your punishment until I decide you’ve had enough. If you can’t, if it’s too much, use your colors—yellow and red—but I think you can take more.”
I wanted to make him proud. Wanted to take exactly how much he thought I could, so I didn’t tell him to stop. Tears mixed with snot, running down my face, getting on my arm and the bed, but as I hurt for him, as I lay there crying, something about my tears cleansed me. Made me feel less heavy and burdened, as if they were washing away pain I didn’t know I had.
Then he wasn’t spanking me anymore. He was lifting me, holding me as I straddled him, kissing my temple and telling me how proud he was of me, that I was his good boy. My ass rubbed against his jeans, more welcome pain from him.
“You did so well, precious boy. Sweet warrior boy. You have pleased me so very much.”
Thank you, whispered through my mind, but I couldn’t make the words come out. Couldn’t form them or any others on my tongue, but they were there, in my head. I love you. Thank you for caring about me. For punishing me.
I cried until there were no tears left inside me. Aidan held me the whole time. He wiped them away, didn’t seem to mind that snot was mixed with them. And when I finally settled down, he lifted my hand and spit in it. “Jerk yourself off. You deserve it.”
I was still on his lap, being held by him. He had never let me come this way. I did as he said and wrapped a hand around my cock. I hardly got three good strokes in before my balls emptied, shooting my load all over my chest and Aidan’s shirt. I loved seeing my cum on him and wished he would mark me with his—all over my face, in my mouth, on my chest and ass. Every inch of me.
Aidan used his fingers to scoop my load from my skin. I opened my mouth, let him drop it inside, then licked my jizz from his fingers, smiling.
“You look proud of yourself,” he whispered, petting my hair.
“I’m proud to be yours. Thank you, Sir. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
He kissed my temple again, my forehead, petted my hair. I felt weightless as he maneuvered me on the bed, as he checked my ass, his fingers dancing across the skin. I knew he would take care of me, which he did, and then he lay down with me and held me until my world went black…maybe even longer.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Aidan
My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Blood was all over the front of me, up to my elbows, the red mixing with the blue of my gloves and protective wear. I stood in front of the sink, willing my fucking hands to quit trembling, but they wouldn’t. No matter what, I couldn’t get them to fucking stop.
They had been rock steady during surgery. Precise. Urgent. Skilled.
It hadn’t been enough.
I hadn’t been enough.
“You did all you could, Dr. Kingsley,” Lance, one of the trauma nurses, said.
Another was softly crying as she whispered to herself, “She was so young.”
Eight years old. She had been eight years old, just like my sisters had been.
I cleared my throat. “Thank you, all of you. We did all we could.” The words felt empty; they were empty. They were true, yes. We had run a perfect trauma activation, had done all the right things, but again, it hadn’t been enough.
From there it was a blur—cleaning up, speaking with the family—Christ, that always killed me—showering, driving home, sitting in the driveway.
Closing my eyes.
Imagining the wreck today that took eight-year-old Olivia’s life.
Reliving the car accident that took Amy and Ari. That took my mom.
“Fuck!” My hands slapped down over and over against the steering wheel. Fuck, I’d wanted to save her. I’d wanted to save them.
It was dark out, almost eleven on a Friday night. The trauma call came in at 6:26 p.m. I was supposed to have gotten off at seven.