he is on his knees, looking up at me, breathing hard, blood trickling from the corner of the lip I split with that last punch.
"whatta you say boy?"
"Thankyou Sir" he breathes, fingertips tracing circles in the blood on his chin.
This boy comes to me every week, his high powered office job clothes are removed and placed in the black bin by the door, and he stands, in his leather boots, cock hard, facing me with his hands behind his back. Every week at 5.15. The fact that he has never been late, never rang to cancel, I know this is important to him. Almost as important as breathing.
The blood is wiped away, always on the same towel, bearing the marks of many more beatings, much more blood spilt, just as his face still carries the marks from last week. We always finish this way, his blood mingling with his cum on the floor. I wipe my bloodied knuckles on my towel, the one he takes home with him to wash for me.
When he came to me, this boy, he was a hardnosed fuck that could not look me in the eye when he took his beatings, he ran away to a place deep inside, his hands on his cock, his face exposed. Now he can come from the anticipation of a punch alone, let alone the pain. Now he looks into my eyes, rejoicing in what he has found, both within himself, and the darkness within me.
He crawls forward on his knees, making small blood smears on my floor, and is kneeling, his head on my thigh, hands fumbling for my belt, reaching for the hardness underneath, the warm steel within my waistband. I smile, and free it from the restriction of the cloth, it slides, sensiously against the material as I run my hand along it, feeling it almost throb with power.
I moan as I forcefully open his mouth to shove the hardness in his mouth, he stills, and sucks on the long smoothness, groaning, wanting, knowing what is coming for him and him alone.
*click*
BOOM!