He stops his stroking when our eyes meet.
“Go ahead. Let me watch.”
With our eyes locked and his nostrils flaring with his uneven breaths, he picks up his movements again. His expression morphs from pain to pleasure and misery, but he’s clearly struggling to reach his last climax.
“Come here,” I say, and he stills his hand as he steps toward me.
With the smell of soap on his skin, he stands just a few inches away from me, the cool air from the open shower door creating goosebumps on his skin. When he drops his hand from his cock, I reach down and wrap my own around it. He visibly reacts to my touch with a wince, and I start stroking at the same fast pace that he was. He moans as I pull one last orgasm out of his racked body. I love watching his face as blissful agony washes over him.
My gaze trails down to my hand when he gets close, and I watch with interest as he comes, shooting a small, sad spurt of cum from his cock. It lands on the shower floor between us.
I notice the tremor in his legs, so I rest a hand on his hip and give him a reassuring squeeze. His eyes find mine again, and they’re pleading for mercy.
“Turn around,” I whisper.
With relief on his face, he spins and places his forearms against the wall. Gently, I work the plug out of his ass and notice the way his body seems to melt once it’s gone. I leave the still vibrating toy on the floor of the shower to take care of later, but for now, I focus on him.
When he turns back to face me, I rub my thumb over his cheek. Then, I spin the dial on the faucet to turn the water off and grab the giant fluffy towel hanging on the rack.
He steps out and reaches for the towel, but I hold it out of his grasp. “I’ll do it.”
His eyes don’t leave my face as I pat his body dry, taking care of his tired arms and legs, and trying to memorize every inch of his skin as I do. He’s staring at me with confusion as I towel him off.
“Is it over?” he asks.
I’m kneeling at his feet, drying off his knees down to his toes. “Yes, it’s over,” I reply.
When I stand back up, his gaze is more intense, and I pause as I stare into his sky blue eyes.
“Am I forgiven?”
My posture relaxes as I let out a sigh. “Yes, Beau. You’re forgiven.”
His expression of misery slightly changes with that response, as if he’s miserable and relieved at the same time.
“I’m going to get you some water. You can lie in my bed and rest until your underwear are out of the dryer.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, followed by a hearty yawn.
Grabbing my phone off the counter, I turn off the vibration and close out the app. By the time I come back upstairs with his water, he’s drifting off. Lying on top of the covers, the towel is draped over his midsection, so I gently lift it away and toss it on the unused exercise bike to dry. Then I pull a thick blanket from the basket in the corner and lay it over him.
“Sit up. Drink something.”
With a sigh, he scoots up the pillow and takes the water from my hand.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
He shrugs in response. “Good.” And I expect that to be it, but he seems almost in a daze as he continues, “I mean…it sucked, but I did it. And I feel better now. Like I…made you proud.”
I bite back my smile. “You did make me proud.”
He passes me back the water, and I place it on the nightstand. Then I set a sandwich on his lap. “Eat.”
I didn’t give him any breaks today, so I know he’s starving. As he picks it up and takes a bite, I stroke his wet hair out of his face. I want to say something, but the words get caught on my tongue. I’m not so good at the praise stuff, but I’m dying to tell Beau just how not bad he is. As much as I was punishing him, I think he was really punishing himself.